Life
by Shhasow
Summary: Lord Wyldon of Cavall and Keladry of Mindelan - their life story together, moving slowly.
1. When Dragons Fly

Lord Wyldon, the training master at the Royal Palace, always walked the corridors the first few days of each new batch of pages. The halls were literally labyrinthine, designed that way on purpose in case of siege, and it was not uncommon for permanent inhabitants to take a wrong turn and end up somewhere unfamiliar. The new pages, therefore, had no chance whatsoever, unless they were bright enough to latch onto their sponsor.

Most were, but every year after the first training session, hungry and exhausted first year pages blundered their way into the palace irrespective of liberal warnings, and almost every year Wyldon found at least one page. He was usually lucky enough to head them off before they lost themselves too far.

The lost were generally the most bold and the most meek; the bold felt they had no need of a guide after the first few days before lessons began, while the meek were too timid to take initiative and demand their sponsor show the way, especially if the sponsor himself was dismissive.

If Wyldon were a betting man, he would lay a gold noble on that fool Bertram of Darkamelin.

Of course, he did have insider knowledge after a footman reported to him of Darkamelin's previous misadventures in the crypts of the palace.

Therefore he was sweeping the corridors in his usual mile-eating stride, soft boots making little noise on the polished floor. Intimidation and correction were remarkably more effective when the page was taken unawares, not to mention, though he never would admit it, more entertaining for him. Not that his pupils could ever imagine his taking enjoyment out of anything, even their suffering.

He was passing the corridor leading to foreign delegations when he heard the noise. A soft sob, unable to be stifled but breaking out through closed lips. His first reaction was distaste, and his mouth twisted unpleasantly. What self-respecting boy would cry at the advanced age of ten, especially one meant to be a knight.

Tempted to continue on and leave the weak boy to find his own way to the dining hall – for his sake, Wyldon hoped it wouldn't be too late as the older pages particularly despised waiting for first years – he stopped when another soft cry echoed through the hall.

It sounded distinctly feminine.

What was a young girl doing in this part of the palace?

Was there – ah yes, a delegation from the Yamani Islands was here to work out agreements about fishing rights or some such nonsense, as a prelude to a permanent peace treaty. Bloody savages.

Still, the odds that it was a foreign child was high enough that he should investigate. Wyldon had no wish to instigate an international incident by overlooking a lost child.

It had nothing at all to do with the fact that the quiet sobs reminded him of his own dear girls.

Quietly, he walked towards the sounds, peering down hallways until he found her.

Well, she was not Yamani.

He saw a young girl, maybe older than his youngest daughter, with light brown hair leaning against the wall. She was dressed in a nondescript tunic, her arms wrapped around her and her face a picture of absolute misery.

She reminded him forcibly of his Margarry, though of course his daughter would never wear breeches, and it was without conscious thought that he moved.

The training master, the terror of the training yards, whom five years of pages would solemnly swear had no kinder feelings than annoyed ambivalence at best, sat on the floor next to the girl and folded her into his lap as he would his own child. He rubbed her back and muttered soothing words. Startled at first, she went stiff as a board but at his continued comfort she quickly melted and wrapped her arms around his chest, crying openly into the soft fabric of his tunic.

They sat together for a spell, rocking very slightly as her sobs diminished and eventually ceased. Even so, it was not until she pulled her head from his now damp shoulder and looked deeply into his eyes, studying his worn and craggy face, that he loosened his arms around the child. Wyldon removed his handkerchief and wiped her eyes before instructing her to blow. She did and, as if only now realizing what had happened, she blushed a bright red and scrambled from his lap.

The girl bowed to him deeply, hands on her thighs, as he slowly rose and stowed the soiled linen in a deep pocket.

"I am very sorry, my lord," she said in a subdued voice still lined with tears and embarrassment, though it was obvious that she tried to suppress it.

Lord Wyldon nodded silently, unsure of how to proceed. If it had been one of his girls, they would already be spilling their woes and sorrows, expecting him to fix the problem. If it had been a page, well, the past ten minutes would not have happened; they would all be eating lunch by now, and the armory would have an able assistant for the next few weeks.

"What are you doing in this wing of the palace, are you lost?"

She shook her head, eyes downcast. "My parents are with the Yamani delegation, my lord."

That explained her presence but not much else. "Are you hurt?"

"No sir."

At least the girl was polite. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back looking expectantly at her. It always worked when he needed information from unwilling pages.

"Sir, I-I went to watch the pages. I knew they were starting today, and I wanted to go see. I did-didn't mean to be a distraction, but they were learning how to fall and I learnt how to fall and they kept doing it wrong, sir. I just wanted to help," she broke off.

"Take a deep breath and continue, child."

She took several and lifted her head to meet his eyes, a mask of calm and blankness falling over her face, all traces of sadness well-hidden.

Lord Wyldon resisted the urge to shudder. It was unnatural for a girl her age to seem so lifeless. If he had any doubts before, he knew for certain that she was telling the truth about belonging with the Yamani delegation. A man should learn how to hide pain, but a little girl should act like a little girl.

"I showed one of the pages how to fall correctly but he," she swallowed, "didn't want to learn from me."

Wyldon could well imagine. "It hurts a man's pride to be showed up, especially by a girl."

She broke her mask just long enough to scowl at him indignantly. "They aren't men, they're just stupid boys."

He could not help but give a short barking laugh, but sobered quickly for her sake, nodding at her to continue.

Her words started cool and measured, as any soldier in the field giving a report, but her composure soon broke and the words tumbled out in a spill.

"Then, my lord, they laughed at me and said they did not have to listen to me because they were going to be knights. I told them I was too. Some of them got angry and one of the pinched me here." She rubbed the inside of her upper arm. "They shouldn't have done that. Knights should be honorable and honest and kind but they kept laughing. They called me stupid and weak and I didn't want them to know that I was hurt so I ignored them and didn't let them see. But then one of them said I looked like a lump and the rest laughed and they all said it so I ran."

She blushed slightly. True knights don't run.

True knights don't pick on the defenseless. Wyldon was deeply annoyed at the thoughtless first year pages. All of them had sisters, cousins, or nieces, yet they thought it perfectly appropriate to tease a young girl until she cried. They would be getting a long lecture about chivalry very soon, and he no longer felt the slightest guilt about making the pages wait for their food. If it got cold, that was their own problem and knights rarely ate hot meals in the field.

"They are going to be knights. However," he held up his hand to forestall her indignant response, "that does not excuse their behavior, but makes it more appalling.

"Girls cannot be knights, child, but they can serve the realm in other ways."

She lifted her head defiantly. "Girls can so be knights, my parents told me, and I'm going to be the first one."

Wyldon could not contradict her again. She would find out soon enough; he did not have to contribute to her sorrow by preemptively crushing her dreams. Female warriors were weaker than their male counterparts, prone to tears, liable to freeze up in battle, and he would fight girl pages until dragons came to Tortall.

Still, a little advice now would be generous, chivalrous. If she was still so inclined in a few years, she could join those blasted Riders.

"If that is so, then you have to start training now. Run, build muscles, learn the law," he lectured, speaking as he would to one of his charges, or his son if he had ever had one. "Knights are strong both in arms and at heart. They must be to uphold the Code of Chivalry and the laws of the realm. A true knight of Tortall is calm, courageous, defends the weak, and punishes oath-breakers. He does not show weakness or pain, ever, and words mean nothing to him."

The girl listened, eyes wide, soaking in his words. She vowed to herself that she would be that ideal, that defender of truth and justice. She could do it. She would do it.

"Names are simply an attempt to deal with the unknown and the unknowable. You are outside the pages' knowledge of the possible and they reacted to control your reaction. Defeat them by becoming better.

"Do not give someone the power to control you, and they cannot hurt you. Pain is only in the mind, both physical and mental. It is a weakness but like all weaknesses, can be overcome."

He paused. Her rapt attention was vaguely gratifying. Most pages only pretended to pay attention when he lectured about abstract ideals, but this little girl seemed to understand the importance and implications almost before he spoke.

"You do know that you can join the Queen's Riders when you are fifteen. You do not have to be a knight."

She shook her head. "If I stay in Yaman, I can learn how to fight, but I don't want to.

"I will be a knight."

Lord Wyldon read the determination in the girl's eyes and for a second, believed that she would.


	2. Unwelcome Surprise

Angry footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, announcing the great displeasure of the walker and immediate disembowelment to any page foolish enough to draw his attention, or at least armory duty until Midwinter.

Returning pages who saw him scrambled to get out of his sight, uncaring about losing their dignity, for they decided that discretion was the better part of valor. No one could remember seeing their training master so close to losing control as he was then, eyes nearly lost under a lowered brow, jaw clenched, mouth tightened to a thin line as he strode away from his office.

The clear-minded who were close enough had seen the king exit gracefully just before Lord Wyldon, and the Lioness storm out in a similar rage – if more obvious and accompanied with gesticulating and muffled curses - a few minutes earlier.

Wyldon wanted to hit something, anything. If his arm weren't in a sling, he would be headed towards the tilting yards, hitting the dummies hard enough to crack them.

As it was, he could practice swordplay, albeit awkwardly, but it was not physical enough. He wanted to _break_ something.

It had finally happened, the day he had been dreading for years had finally come.

A girl was coming to the palace to train for her knighthood.

After ten years, he had hoped that no one would step forward. The first female page would face a daunting task, subject to slander, suspicion, and scrutiny. Besides, nobles would rather save their girls for advantageous marriages rather than let them train with arms, grow muscle, and scar themselves in some ill-conceived foolish crusade for equality.

Not that proper females had any such inclination, or if they did, they waited for the proper outlet for unfeminine desires and joined the Queen's Riders. If their masculine tendencies continued to age 15, then let them join the irregular troops created by that foreign savage and the unorthodox Queen. Their presence galled him, but since he never had to work with the mixed-sex troops, Wyldon was generally successful in ignoring their existence.

Who was this Keladry of Mindelan? What made her different than the rest?

The king had mentioned her family's importance to the Yamani peace treaty and the girl's prior training. Was it possible that this was the girl from years ago?

Possible, but unlikely and unimportant. Any girl was trouble.

And why did the king push this on him now? Why now indeed, a mere month after the barrier between the realms was reestablished; didn't they have enough to do with cleaning up that mess? Why add another complication of a female in arms when the king insisted on foisting all those blasted reforms onto a recovering populace, their worlds already undone by the appearance of monstrous creatures?

They already had an unstable female as champion, and Wyldon's scowl deepened at the thought.

_The Lioness_, indeed.

If the Lioness hadn't been there, he might have argued with His Majesty King Jonathon instead of merely making threats. As it was, the hot-tempered woman did half of his job for him. Surely she realized that by snapping and growling at the king – like her vaunted epithet - the ruler was forced to set her down, to side with Wyldon himself?

Not that Wyldon cared what that Bazhir-consorting savage thought, or did not think. She disgraced her rank and position with her lightning temper, just another example of the inferiority of women in arms.

It was enough to make a man wish for more peaceful days before this progressive king and his powerful – admittedly intelligent, if misguided – cronies.

The training master was forced to accept the girl, forced to train her for a year and pretend she was equal to the boys, but there was nothing anyone could say if she quit on her own.

He stopped suddenly, his terrible mood suddenly lightened.

Of course. Why hadn't he considered it before?

Wyldon saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and whirled around. Three pages stood near, his favored pupil along with two cohorts.

"Joren of Stone Mountain. Vinson of Genlith. Garvey of Runnerspring."

They bowed respectfully and with a tinge of fear as they murmured polite greetings.

An impulse struck the training master and he grabbed it immediately without further consideration. "Stone Mountain," he barked, gratified when the blonde jumped slightly but quickly mastered himself. That was the control of a knight, and Wyldon approved. "All three of you, I received good reports on your conduct and actions in the recent conflict. You are a testament to your training."

They bowed again, gratefully accepting the compliment, it being rare that he deigned to give more than "not terrible," or "acceptable."

Wyldon drummed his fingers lightly on his cast. "I suppose you have learned of our new arrival."

Joren glanced at his friends and spoke for the group. "My lord, I know there is a rather large group of first year pages, but-"

"A girl, Stone Mountain. We are getting a girl."

The looks of horror and shock on their faces merely confirmed what he already knew. A female would cause discord and chaos among _proper_ pages.

"My lord, are you sure?" asked Vinson tentatively.

Wyldon favored him with a chilling glare. Of course he was accurate. "I recently came from a meeting with his majesty, Genlith."

There, the hint was dropped, when combined with his foreboding expression, that this was a royal command outside of his control.

"Then she will be trained without reservations, my lord?" Joren asked. Sharp lad.

"She has probationary status for the first year, at which time I will assess her capabilities and either discontinue her training or let her continue," he stared meaningfully into Joren's eyes, "unless she quits beforehand."

The blonde youth nodded slowly. Message received.

The three were dismissed and Lord Wyldon decided to walk on to the curtain wall, overall in a better mood. Fresh air and a long run would clear his head, restore his equilibrium.

He would judge the girl as fairly as he knew. She would have to measure up to and surpass the boys, as well as have a capable head on her shoulders, but if she stood out as exemplary with the proper composure necessary for a knight, she would stay.

Not that she would last that long. Burchard of Stone Mountain was one of his strongest allies at court and a notorious conservative, and he had passed his proper principles down to his eldest son.

Wyldon would watch Joren and make sure he was properly chivalrous and observant of the code, but the traditional hazing of first years would not be waived. Indeed, he had every hope of the opposite. Joren would not fail.

Lord Wyldon would not give the girl two weeks before she packed her bags.

Besides, if she managed to outlast the boy, then perhaps she deserved to stay.

A trickle of a thought came to him of that encounter years ago with the determined young girl. What was that he had sworn, that he would deny female pages until dragons flew over Tortall?

Well, that would teach him not to make promises he could not keep.


	3. Sakuyo Laughs

Kel softly padded through the halls of the Royal Palace.

It was her first year of page training, albeit on a probationary status, and she really didn't want to give the training master any excuse to kick her out or refuse to let her return, but it went against everything she knew to let Joren and his friends pick on the new pages.

Tradition was fine, but it just wasn't right to hurt someone to smarten them up.

So Kel jogged at night to find Joren, to see if he was bullying anyone. If he was, then she got in the middle of things.

It always ended with her losing, but every time she learned a few tricks and gave a few more bruises to Joren and whoever showed up, usually Vincent and Garvey, occasionally Zahir.

Tonight Kel patrolled an area further away than usual, behind the Great Hall, near the kitchens. She was vaguely familiar with the area, enough not to get lost, but she wasn't certain what was actually here.

Kel slowed to a walk, peeking into various open rooms, looking at plaques and tapestries on the wall.

She seemed to be in part of the Old Palace. It wasn't used very much anymore, the court favoring the newer and more comfortable sections of the palace.

It was colder here; she could see her breath mist in front of her face. It was nearly Midwinter, after all, and since the Old Palace was unused, mages didn't bother to leave warming spells in the rooms.

Kel was about to turn back when she heard a thump from up ahead.

She moved slowly, not wanting to alert anyone to her presence. She wasn't entirely sure that pages were allowed in this area, but it could be Joren. After running away that first time, Kel was determined to not let the older page torment anyone else.

A low chuckle reached her ears. It was male for certain, but she was too far away to hear the words.

She crept closer and heard a second voice, higher, feminine, entwining with the first.

"Well, my lord, you look the same as always, though perhaps another grey hair?"

"And you, my dear, are as beautiful as when I left ."

"Just since then?"

Kel blushed scarlet. It was just two people and their mushy love talk, definitely not something she wanted to hear!

The man laughed again, softly.

"If you cannot vouch for my grey hairs, then I cannot do the same for yours."

"My Lord! As inflexible as always, but I believe I can convince you to bend your dignity."

"Vivenne! Here?"

"Why not? There are no courtiers to spread scandalous gossip, no pages to faint when they see their," a few words were mumbled too low to hear, but Kel was almost convinced that she heard "master," "…by his wife?"

Kel couldn't walk away now. The voice was familiar, though muffled by distance and walls. The only reason she heard was because the door was cracked open, and both voices were pitched to carry.

Was that really her stiff-necked training master?

It couldn't be.

She had to make sure.

The woman was talking again, speaking coquettishly. "Where is your courage, my lord?"

"I believe I left it with my dear wife when I left her in our bed four months ago."

"Oh, Wyl-"

His wife, whoever he was, was cut off. Kel heard a sound she was familiar with, the wet smacks of two pairs of lips. She made a face. Her brothers and their wives were discreet, but Mindelan was a small fief.

Still, she had to make sure that it wasn't her training master. Surely there were other people in the palace named Will, many of them!

Kel just couldn't reconcile the cold Lord Wyldon with this loving husband. The two images didn't fit together, like two puzzle pieces with all tabs and no openings. No matter how they were twisted or turned, they can't lock together.

She promised herself she would just stay another minute. Any more than that and it might get extremely embarrassing. She admitted to herself that she listened out of morbid fascination.

Heavy breathing was barely audible over the sound of Kel's heartbeat in her ears.

"I do love you," he whispered softly. Kel had to strain to hear, and even though she was strictly unromantic, the words, uttered with such sincerity, made her breath catch.

"How are the girls? Is Margarry still sleeping with the pups?"

The woman had a marvelous laugh, light and tinkling in the air. "I cannot drag her away. She leaves only to eat and to ride her horse."

"Just like you." Kel heard a smile in his voice, and she decided it couldn't be Lord Wyldon. He'd never smiled in his life, or laughed.

"I am a far cry better than that, unless my lord is nearby, in which case I am worse."

They paused and kissed some more. Kel fidgeted.

"Thank you for coming, you know how much I miss you during training. I wish you could stay."

"And let you scare the pages out of their wits? They wouldn't know what to do with a happy training master!"

Kel froze.

Sakuyo was laughing, as was the happy couple.

Lord Wyldon, happy, smiling, laughing.

If it hadn't been for what she overheard next, Kel might have stayed in that spot all night.

"Oh, what a convenient place for a bed. Your old bones cannot handle the floor anymore, can they?"

"I'll show you what these old bones can do-"

Kel fled as quietly and quickly as possible, trying to get the mental image of Lord Wyldon out of her head and failing miserably. Her only hope was that somehow she had misheard, for she couldn't stomach the fact that right now, he might be-

She raced back to Neal's room as soon as she was out of the Old Palace.

Kel arrived, panting and sweating and trembling, to find Neal had given up his mathematics for a philosophy book.

He looked up in concern when Kel stood in the doorway, pale. "Kel, are you alright?"

She shook her head mutely and failed to get out any words.

Neal ushered her to a chair. "Do I need to get anyone? Did someone do something, say something?"

Kel negatively shook her head again. She coughed harshly.

Neal offered water, which she drank, then tried again.

"N-Neal. Does Lord Wy-Wyldon have a wife?"

Neal frowned in confusion. "What brought this up? I know you admire the Stump and all, but-"

"Neal. What is his wife's name? Does he have daughters?"

Neal sighed theatrically. "Yes, a most beautiful wife, radiant and glowing, breathing life to the dull palace along with her daughters, all of whom but one are at the convent, learning little feminine delicacies and tricks to enthrall any male."

"Neal! "

He rolled his eyes. Kel never appreciated a good dramatic touch. "Lady Vivenne," he announced.

Kel fainted.


	4. Tilting at Windmills

"Again."

The voice reverberated through the courtyard, cutting easily through the thick summer air. It was no contest, for the owner had carefully cultivated his voice to be heard on a chaotic battlefield, therefore it boomed in the quiet training yard filled with two knights on horseback and a small collection of onlookers.

Keladry of Mindelan patted her tired mount, hitched up her shield, readied her lance, and the two charged down the field towards each other. After the resulting crash of weapons, she was moderately pleased for she had not taken flight, though it was a near thing, as always. Trotting back, she made sure to stretch out her tired limbs.

"Again."

It was after the Scanran war that he had taken an active role in her continued training, slipping into a familiar role though with a more personal touch than usual. After all, few pages, squires, or knights received personal attention from Lord Wyldon.

Of course, no one else was crazy enough to accept, even if it had been offered. When she told her former knight-master, Raoul had guffawed and told her that he would pick up the pieces of her, if there were any left.

Frankly, Kel sincerely doubted her continued existence. Three rounds and she already felt pulverized like a piece of meat. Why had she accepted, again?

Not that she wasn't grateful for the lessons. She was at home in her saddle, peering down the lane at helmeted opponents, even more comfortable than when she wielded her glaive. There was something about tilting, a combination of skill and strength and speed. Everything fit just right. Even if there was always someone better, there was always more to learn, and Lord Wyldon was undisputedly the best.

"Again."

Keladry had always admired her training master, though his insistence on granting her probationary status her rankled at first. Her inherent sense of justice had railed that entire year, sharpened by the sting of betrayal. He was a trusted, worthy, skilled knight who had upheld the code of chivalry for more years than she had been alive, yet he perpetuated the injustice against her. For a long time, she could not reconcile the two, and her anger only truly subdued when he let her return.

No, that was not true. She had accepted it, but not understood. True understanding came later.

She, along with everyone at court, had been very surprised when this stiff inflexible man unbent enough to change time-honored traditional training tactics. Surprised, but it earned her respect. After a close questioning of Sir Raoul, she learned that he himself had never learned tactics and strategy as a page, nor had he heard of it ever being taught. It was untraditional. For all of Neal's protests and baiting of Sir Wyldon, even he admitted that the training master had unwound slightly, though Neal still insisted that the "Stump" had some nefarious plan that would eventually be revealed.

"Again."

Still, it was not until her days as a squire that she gave up all vestiges of resentment against the man. It was one thing to learn about warfare and battle, and it was another to actually experience the kraken. Her life depended on her comrades and theirs on her. A weakness in the field in the line of duty spelled disaster for all. As much as she disliked to think it, Sir Wyldon was not unjustified in insisting on a year of trial to see if she could keep up with the boys. If she hadn't sought out extra exercises from the Shang Wildcat, if she hadn't weighted all of her weapons, would she be alive now?

His breach of justice, in her mind, was somewhat justified. His ultimate goal was not, as she suspected for so long, to keep her down and take away her rights, but to ensure the safety of everyone by making sure she was capable, willing to work harder than the boys to remain on an even keel and surpass them.

Kel didn't like it, but she accepted it.

Nor could she forget that day when she caught him before he left for the Scanran border just after he resigned. He hid it well, his utter broken-heartedness and shame and confusion. The real and likely possibility that he had failed in his duty even for just Joren and Vinson tore him apart. Lord Wyldon was honor; duty guided him in all actions, it was his duty to prepare boys into manhood and knighthood, and something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.

And she never could shake the slight disappointment when he did not offer to participate in the rituals before her Ordeal. He was in the north, of course, and her feeling of being let down surprised her at first, but it made sense. Lord Wyldon had been there from the beginning, he had pushed and bullied her past her failures, had broken her down to build her up stronger and unbreakable, forged by duty for duty.

"Again."

When Kel realized she was working under him in her first trial as a knight as commander of Haven, she felt an inexplicable warmth of relief even if she hadn't initially liked the assignment. Well, it was explainable. He was steadfast, brilliant, capable, and he trusted in her abilities, the perfect commander except for his later refusal to let her follow the refugees.

Yet it remained the proudest moment of her life when she stood on the banks of the Vassa, exhausted and injured, anxious and filled with trepidation that she would go to Traitor's Hill for her desertion. When he covered the distance between them and kissed her forehead tenderly, she had received the only acknowledgement needed, that of the man she wished to emulate for the rest of her life, the ideal of knighthood and the embodiment of the Code.

"Again."

Keladry did not see him again until a few months after the War. She had continued to serve under him in New Haven, but they rarely communicated outside of reports and the odd meeting at the Fort. Afterwards, they met accidentally in Corus in a strategy meeting for the remnants left over by the war. She was the main voice for the removal and disposal of the refugees, he was one of the senior commanders reporting overall strategy and necessary improvements.

After the meeting, she managed to speak with him for a few minutes, offering her sincere condolences for the death of his wife who, if rumor had it, surprisingly was much beloved by the cold man. He had seemed surprised by her concern and he thanked her sincerely, if distantly. The ravages of grief still lined his face, combating with those from war, making him seem older than his years.

It was during that conversation that he offered to train her in the art of tilting, and in a moment mixed with sympathy, excitement, and madness, she accepted.

At least, it was madness according to Neal, who had never lost his dislike for the training master, nor Wyldon for him.

Kel thought it was rather habit by now for both of them.

She waited for the commanding voice to fill the field, forcing her to charge again though her limbs drooped and her head was both ringing and stuffed with wool. Even tilting against Raoul did not hurt so much. He was a sledgehammer; Wyldon was an unstoppable force, an avalanche, a toppling mountain.

Kel noticed that she was getting tilt-silly again, waxing lyrical over the pain shooting through her entire body. How exactly did her toenails hurt?

Sir Wyldon, on the other hand, looked virtually undisturbed. How many rounds had it been? Not enough for him apparently, though he sipped from his water almost as greedily as she, though with more composure. Where she swayed in her saddle and stretched out her exhausted limbs, he sat still, unmoved, unaffected, one with the great beast underneath carrying him.

She patted Peachblossom, his coat dark with sweat. He was nearly worn in, his nostrils flaring as he heaved great gasps through his barrel chest.

"Mindelan," she heard and looked up at Wyldon. "Live lances."

But that will hurt _more_ – she wanted to cry out. Kel swallowed her misgivings and turned to pick up a lance from a selection, then urged Peachblossom back into the lane.

This reminded her of that old phrase about jousting and windmills and futility. At least, Kel thought it did, but she wasn't sure of much at the moment.

"Again."

This charge and impact felt as if all the gods above came down on her, as if the smith god himself was forging her into a weapon, stoking the fires, beating from her any imperfections.

It was probably a more apt metaphor than she realized.

Her lance had shattered after the pass, though she had made his break as well which did give her some tired satisfaction; she turned away to pick up a new one. Out of the corner of her eyes she spotted him loosening up, shaking his arms like she did after every round. So! She did affect him somewhat, but he was too proud to show it.

Was it because she was still a relatively green knight, or because she was the Girl?

Kel allowed herself to scowl for a second then dropped her Yamani mask.

She would show him.

Girl or not.

Peachblossom, feeling the new life inside of her, sashayed up to the starting line. He rolled his head to look at her with one dark eye and she nodded to her fierce companion and fellow survivor of many battles. This was just one more battle.

Keladry tucked away her exhausted, her burning muscle, her aching everything. Nothing mattered but Lord Wyldon's shield, her target. She shouted –

"Again!"

The two knights charged once more but one of them was slightly unsettled, seat not quite secure, poise not perfect.

When they crashed together, one of them flew through the air.

Keladry of Mindelan stared disbelievingly. The onlookers all gasped and ceased their betting and horseplay, immediately silent. Raoul, back from his ride and true to his earlier promise, nearly fainted off his horse.

She dismounted and walked up to the fallen body of the indestructible and unseatable former training master, who was muttering under his breath too low to be heard through the metal of their helmets.

He accepted her helping hand and stood, the two of them nearly eye to eye, though he stood a scant few inches taller. They removed their helmets and revealed his lips twisted into a genuine smile, the largest she had ever seen from him, though had it been on any other man she would have though him merely pleased. Had his eyes always been that warm shade of golden brown? Did she know that he had the slightest hints of dimples?

"Very good, Mindelan. Now do it again."

"Sir?" Kel gasped and groaned.

"I knew you could, Lady Knight. I knew you were capable, if anyone, and I am confident you can do it again."

"Not now, sir?"

He barked a short laugh, eyes still dancing in his lit-up face. "No, Mindelan, let me save the rest of my dignity to be destroyed another day. I shall rest on the delusion that it was an accident and will never happen again, at least until next time."

Struck by thoughts that danced through her head the size and weight of her warhorse, Kel accepted the offered hand. They clasped forearms like old war companions come to a mutual happy understanding.

Even stone can bend.


	5. Tilting Too

**A/N** This is a companion to Tilting at Windmills from Wyldon's perspective to get a good look into his mind at the same time as Keladry's.

* * *

The Lady Knight looked tired even under her full armor astride her beast of a horse. It had something to do with the slope of her shoulders, how after every round she drooped so slightly that someone less familiar with here would not notice and might think her as spry as when they began rounds ago.

Yet just before he gave the order to charge, she seemed to pause, breathe, and grow, putting aside her aches and pains and tiredness to fly down the lane. She seemed determined to unseat him every time.

"Again."

Mindelan might do it, too. Although with padded lances neither were in true danger of taking flight – though she came very close to it their first round – if they were to wield naked lances with their smaller point of impact, Wyldon thought she was coming close.

She hit nearly as hard as Raoul, with a stronger finish that left her more vulnerable but more likely to unseat her opponent. With practice, she would lose that vulnerability.

Raoul had done a very good job with her squire training. Wyldon had been quite pleased when he choose her; he had even taken the chance and had written to him after the fourth year examinations. It would have been a terrible waste for the most promising page to have gone unsquired, even if she was a girl, and Raoul was the perfect match. He was always in the public eye, a progressive war hero. Raoul would teach Mindelan how to command, how to plan, even how to enjoy what she did.

Mindelan was too much like himself. She was naturally serious and had to learn how to enjoy her duty.

Still, he held a furtive wish to have seen Raoul's face when he received his letter implying her suitability for the commander.

Lord Raoul might have chosen her anyway, and Wyldon did admit to being concerned at the time that the man would turn her down to spite him. They didn't have the best relationship, the two knights.

He had been worried when Raoul had taken so long to come to the palace, though his fears were in vain.

No conservative knight would take her and there were not enough progressives interested in taking squires, especially not one with her potential. Her excellence worked against her for few knights cared to be outshone by their squire, especially if that squire were a girl.

"Again."

It had been several years since Wyldon admitted to himself that Mindelan had great potential, more than any boy he had ever trained. The fact had rankled at first, destroying all of his preconceived notions about females in arms and how even the best girl fell short of the weakest boy.

Mindelan was living proof. More than physically besting even the older males, or at least holding her own, the girl was inexplicably charismatic.

Before her first year was out, all of her year-mates but one naturally gravitated towards her. After her second, half of the older pages did the same. Mindelan was a natural leader, not by words, but by deeds. Her charisma was physical; she led by going first so that the rest had no choice but to follow.

Then after her second year, all doubts were completely erased.

During her first year, he saw Mindelan as a leader. After the bandits, he saw her as she truly was, a commander. Wyldon couldn't help but ponder the consequences if he had sent her home after that first year. Would the rest of those pages have been slaughtered?

What a tremendous waste of life and potential. Knights were not so numerous that Tortall could absorb the loss of six pages in one afternoon.

"Again."

Then there was that debacle during her fourth year examinations. Wyldon had never expected Joren to go so far; after he allowed Mindelan to stay, Wyldon thought Joren had given up. He had failed to drive her away, but it seemed that the training master had underestimated the tenacity of both Mindelan and Joren.

Wyldon had not expected the girl to do something so rash as to skip the examinations to search for and rescue her maid. Strictly, it was what a true noble would have done, but he could think of no one who would have risked so much for a commoner. He might have when he was young, reckless, and entirely unwavering from the Code of Chivalry, but he would have done so for honor, not compassion.

That Joren had stooped so low as to orchestrate the kidnapping of the maid was appalling and indicative of a wanton lack of honor. It was at this point that Wyldon began to fear the Ordeal for the boy, though it was too late to do anything. His character was set in stone, and he shattered under the hammer of the Chamber.

That day when the Chamber of Ordeal opened up on the corpse of Joren of Stone Mountain was one of his most terrible. Utterly guilt-wracked due to the two failures in one year, Wyldon blamed himself for his complicity for both Vinson and Joren. Somehow, somewhere, he had a severe flaw in his training methods.

He hadn't been surprised when Mindelan sought him out the day he resigned. It was very much to her loyal nature, and besides, she had appreciated his drive to push them past their limits, as she had the same determination for herself.

One of the proudest and yet most conflicting moments of his life was when she, with wide earnest eyes, said, _"You're the kind of knight I want to be."_

At that point, he realized that he had somehow become her ideal of knighthood. It was deeply appeasing, for Mindelan was quite a morally bound person possessing great potential, and to be honored in such a way was a balm to his wounded pride and shaken confidence. Yet it was sad, too. The knight she thought him to be would not have placed her on probation or given Joren implicit approval to haze her, or spent her entire four years continually testing her for a weakness that would give him a reason to send her home. That he found none was more frustrating than consoling; even her fear of heights was not enough, not when she excelled at everything else and worked to rid herself of it. Wyldon had always wondered why such a grounded girl had such an irrational fear, though he gathered that she lost it after Balor's Needle.

It was with a conflicted heart that he had responded, "_I'm not, but the fact that you think so is the greatest compliment I could receive."_

"Again."

Mindelan proved herself time and time again. The scathing gossips who asserted the Ordeal would break her were resoundingly refuted when the Chamber doors opened and the girl reluctantly left. From all reports it was as if she didn't want to leave, which was madness, but he did not doubt his sources when it was corroborated by several different voices.

Those same gossips predicted that she would die on the frontline, or worse, get good men killed, were silenced when she undertook a secret mission into Scanra to retrieve hundreds of refugees.

Well, that was the official story, one hastily cobbled by himself and Lord Raoul to give to the king.

The truth was that he knew Mindelan too well – Mithros, she _was _himbut for her age – to have let her go back to Haven alone. Had he been thinking, he would have dragged her back to Fort Mastiff himself. At her age, a green knight with too much responsibility, dedication, and recklessness, he would have gone after the refugees as well, especially when she reported to him and Raoul how she had been sent visions by the Chamber since her Ordeal, that she had actually returned to the Chamber to question it.

Even Wyldon marveled at her audacity. For most knights, once was too much, but the one person whom almost everyone expected to fail, went back voluntarily.

Still, when she was gone, Wyldon was struck with dread. Mindelan was the best knight he had ever trained, and her friends that followed her all individually excellent and honorable. His unsettled emotions were not helped by the furious Raoul, nor the knight's angry missives that tersely demanded immediate notice when she arrived. Mindelan had many powerful champions.

When Wyldon finally received word from a scout of their arrival he and a trusted escort from the Third Company had left immediately. They reached the banks of the Vassa just as Mindelan hobbled off the raft. Relieved that the knights were all alive, including his intrepid hapless squire, Wyldon was struck beyond words.

It was at that moment, he analyzed later, that he had consciously realized the changes in himself, the subtle modifications in his mindset. He was no less hidebound, but she had defied his expectations too many times to leave him unaltered. Every time she was doomed to failure, she rose above triumphantly.

Wyldon no longer could put any limits on Lady Keladry of Mindelan. She defied limits. She defied the impossible.

No, he was not the kind of knight she wanted to be; the Lady Knight was the kind of knight everyone should be, the knight he wanted to be.

Overcome, it was all he could do to kiss her brow and bless her.

"Again."

Merely weeks after Mindelan and the other knights were pardoned, Wyldon received word from Cavall.

His beloved wife was dead, taken by a sudden fever in autumn as he was stationed at Mastiff.

Jesslaw walked in on him weeping silently, tears running down from open staring eyes. His squire read the letter written by Margarry, and left only to inform the second in command that the commander was unreachable. They sat together in companionable suffering, for Vivenne had taken a shine to the enthusiastic pup and he to her. Owen was one of the few who knew the depth of his love for his wife, and Wyldon supposed later that his squire had decided he was not to be left alone.

Sunarine was in Port Legann, too far away to make it to Cavall in time, and Cathrea was unreachable in her Temple in the City of the Gods. His only consolation was that Eiralys married a Naxen and was close enough to be with her mother and that Margarry was still home. Vivenne did not go alone or unloved, but it tore at his heart that she passed without his knowing, without his presence.

It seemed a cold message to be informed of her death by black and white.

Now, a year later, he still felt the absence of his wife. He carried Vivenne in his heart and sought solace with his daughters and with duty.

"Mindelan, live lances."

He met Mindelan at Corus and she had given her solemn condolences. Since his recent discharge of duty left him at ends with too much time to think and be idle, he had offered to continue her jousting training.

She had improved little since their last bout during Progress, but there had been little time for tilting during the war. They were both slightly rusty at first, and after he showed her a few tricks, though she was under oath never to repeat them especially not to Lord Raoul, they were fairly well-matched.

"Again."

This was the first time they drilled with unpadded lances, and by Mithros, the power behind her thrust was staggering, nearly equal to Lord Raoul. She had gained more muscle over the months, he could tell, but she was weakening.

How much longer could she go? He was almost done in as was Cavall's Heart, so she and her monster of a horse had to be just as exhausted if not worse.

Who would call for the end of the practice?

Would he crack first or would she?

Wyldon stretched briefly as she turned away to drink and select a fresh lance. This would be their last, he decided. There was no need to strain the horses, though they needed the exercise to build up stamina as well as the knights.

He picked up a new lance and walked Heart back to the starting place.

There was fire in Mindelan's eyes as she turned back, visible only for a second before she replaced her helmet.

Somehow she and her mount were connected, for he fed off her sudden vitality, frisking and high-stepping as if it were morning and his sides were not soaked with sweat.

She readied herself, suddenly sitting tall and proud again, as fresh as the first run.

As Mindelan stared down the yard at him, the sun peeked behind a cloud and hit her armor. It illuminated her, glancing off the proud angles of her body, concentration and determination in every inch of it. Wyldon was struck with a sudden unwelcome notion.

"Again!" he heard her say.

They surged forth, but Wyldon could not help but be late with his timing, his lance suddenly felt unwieldy, his seat uncertain.

Keladry of Mindelan was beautiful.

The revelation was shocking to him who had never looked at a female warrior in any physical way.

So surprising that, by the time he convinced his mind to forget about the aesthetics of his opponent and to concentrate on the joust at hand, it was too late.

He flew with the birds in the blue sky.

As he lay on the ground, winded and watching the clouds drift by, Wyldon's first reaction was anger at himself for getting distracted and at her for being the cause. He hadn't been unhorsed since he was a green knight. "That fool Raoul will never let me forget this," he muttered in annoyance.

Yet when her worried face filled his vision, Wyldon felt only pride that his best pupil had bested him. It felt right, as if a passing of a mantle from one champion to the next, but he would make her earn it to do so again.

Next time he would not be caught off guard by such inopportune notions. After all, he normally didn't find the Lady Knight beautiful.

Fatigue was the cause of his distraction. Fatigue and stress.

It couldn't possibly be true.


	6. Honor Be Damned

Lord Wyldon was never comfortable in a ballroom, even as a young knight with his beautiful, charming Vivenne on his arm. Idle social chatter never became him; it was never instinctive as a sword in his hand or knowing which horses to breed together, not like his late wife.

Vivenne had enjoyed social events, had pushed him into them, and he had relied on her to remember names, mostly of women for he knew the knights, though he had always felt awkward to stand by the side of such a vivacious woman, a bit like a Lu-

"I am most put out with you, my Lord," Kel quipped as she neared her former training master, the man she hoped she had earned the right to call friend. At his questioning glance, she elaborated, "You have lost me my jousting partner."

"Lord Raoul?" Wyldon ventured, eyes glancing briefly at the Lady Knight's light green dress. He forced them away to meet her dancing hazel eyes. He swallowed, and drained his glass.

She nodded gravely, "He claims his reputation cannot stand the blemish to be unseated by his former squire."

"How magnanimous of him," said Wyldon, "to leave all the honor to me. Never you fear, Mindelan, I shall not desert you in your hour of need. I fear we must both keep our skills sharp, for I suspect you have been receiving a rising number of challenges at tournaments, as have I."

Kel felt guilty. "My lord, I-"

He waved it away, hand hovering over another glass of wine before withdrawing regretfully. "Never mind that, Mindelan. As loathe as I am to admit it, times are changing." He sighed deeply. "Do close your mouth, Lady Knight. I am not such the Stump Queenscove declares I am."

She coughed uncomfortably and looked away. He took the opportunity to assess her openly. Even after wearing a dress at every supper as a page, he still could not imagine the woman dressed up for court, even if she did look fetching in her gown. Still, he always thought she looked more at home in full armor, on her beast of a horse, crouched over to deliver a punishing blow with her-

"My Lord Wyldon?" she repeated.

He was unable to master himself in time and flushed just slightly, barely noticeable to the unobservant eye, but Kel was nothing if not observant.

She opened her mouth, but was interrupted before she could get a sound out.

"Kel, come here!"

She sighed and bowed to Wyldon. "Excuse me, my lord, my insane friend seems to require my presence this exact moment, else he might do something unspeakable."

"Do save us from Queenscove, Mindelan, you are our only chance," he said dryly. He watched her walk away and involuntarily grabbed the wine glass he had rejected earlier. His thoughts charged on warhorses through his pounding head, and he leaned against the wall to tread the thin line between alcohol enough to make the traitorous thoughts lose significance, and too much, in which case he might venture them.

Voicing them aloud would make them real.

As Kel approached her friend, Neal gestured frantically for her to hurry up.

"What, Neal?" she asked, exasperated.

"Sorry to interrupt your time with the Stump," he sniffed, "but that's why I'm calling you over."

Kel scowled and her tightly-wound nerves snapped. "I am sick of you deriding him, Neal. He's an honorable man and a brilliant commander; he doesn't deserve the constant criticism. You owe him loyalty for training us so well, but the only thing you can do is mock him with petty insults behind his back, and I am tired of it!" She blushed slightly, realizing that her voice had grown too loud for a whispered conversation, but took nothing back.

Neal raised his hands defensively. "Slow down there, Kel. As much as I am sure your rant is not appreciated by the St- by that man," he amended hastily, "I wasn't going to take you to task for speaking with him. You and he can spend all the time together you like, whacking each other on horses, giving each other bruises, calculating supply lists, or whatever you two find so enjoyable." He went slightly green as if nauseated by the thought that anyone could consider those activities not punishments, while Kel considered his suggestions and found them quite pleasurable ideas.

"Anyway, I need your help. Actually, Owen needs your help."

Kel raised an eyebrow, but followed Neal's gaze to Owen of Jesslaw on the other side of the ballroom, hovering around Neal's wife, Yuki, and a young pretty girl.

"Neal, is that?" she peered at the face, trying to place it.

"Lady Margarry," he nodded, then added with a tinge of pique, "of Cavall."

"Oh," she whispered under her breath. The girl, Margarry, was beautiful, her long brown hair in perfect ringlets framing a delicate face elegantly turned towards Yuki, her sweet laugh tinkling like bells. Kel, in her favorite dress with some paint, felt distinctly unfeminine.

"I know," Neal sighed, "she certainly didn't inherit her father's good looks."

"Their eyes are the same," Kel answered absently.

Neal stared at her for a second then shook his head. "I am _not_ going to ask how you know that. Instead, I am going to tell you what Owen needs. He needs a distraction."

"And what can I do?" she asked suspiciously.

"Cause a scandal, my dear knight."

Kel rolled her eyes. "I cause a scandal simply by breathing, Neal. Be more specific. Shall I dance a jig on the King's table? Challenge some crusty conservative for my own honor? Confirm everyone's suspicions that I will finally go mad?"

"Even better," he grinned. "I want you to dance with the Stump."

The Lady Knight was too stunned to nag him for the hated nickname. "Wh-what? Dance? You want me, you want me to dance with Lord Wyldon?"

"I didn't think you would mind."

"No, but Neal, I can't do that. I just can't!"

Neal frowned in confusion. "I thought you were getting along with him, you said so yourself."

"Yes, but there's a large distance between getting along with someone and _dancing with them_, Neal!"

He shrugged. "That's the best I can figure. Ah, I suppose Owen shall be forced to wallow and pine for his lady-love."

Kel groaned. "Why does he need a distraction, anyway, and why do I have to do it?"

Neal goggled at her. "You don't suppose _I_ can ask our mutual friend for a dance, do you?" He continued hurriedly when Kel made a threatening motion. She could still wipe the floor with him on the training yard. "Owen thinks Lady Margarry is the most wonderful woman. The sun sets and rises on that delicate chin, that pert nose, her perfectly shaped ears… which you would know if you actually spent time with us instead of hanging out with the Stump, trading bruises."

"Neal."

"Fine, fine. If you can dance with him, then Owen can approach his lady and drag her away to a secluded corner for privacy. Your companion," he shoved his chin towards Wyldon, "has been watching his daughter like a hawk. He knows they like each other and he's determined to not miss a trick. Doesn't trust us, for some reason."

"Can't imagine why," said Kel dryly, biting her bottom lip. "Neal, what if he says no?"

"What if he says yes?" Neal shrugged. "You'll get the furthest out of all of us."

She resisted the urge to strangle her friend, or at least tie his tongue in a knot as Lord Wyldon had threatened years ago.

What if he said no?

It would be embarrassing, certainly. They had only recently come to an understanding, after their initial years of mingled dislike and respect had given way to admiration, at least on her part. They were equal in arms now, more or less, both commanders, though she was still in training for that and he was quite established. If he were to turn her down, there would be lingering consequences, confusion on both of their parts.

What if he said yes?

Did she want him to say yes?

Kel had always thought him handsome, even when she resented her probationary status, even from the time she first stood in front of his sturdy, no-nonsense desk, carefully measuring that craggy face. No, to be honest with herself, everything started back when she was five and a caring man had found her crying in a corridor and had held her in his arms until her tears abated, who had wiped her face, listened to her stumbling story, and given her advice that she had taken to heart.

For years she thought of that man, dreamed of him, even, of his strong arms and soothing voice and of the way he talked to her as if she were an equal to the pages, one of them.

He was her ideal, the man to whom every knight should aspire. When she came to the palace, she had hoped to find him somehow and thank him. Her surprise and betrayal had taken away her breath and made her head swim when she realized that he was the same man as her strict training master, who proceeded for the next year both to ignore and push her further than the boys.

But this was an old stomping ground, no need to rehash her initial shock and subsequent determination to make him acknowledge her ability and her _right_ to belong, which he finally did that night on the banks of the Vassa…

Her forehead burned at the memory.

What if he did say yes?

Suddenly, there was nothing she wanted more.

"The next dance is about to start," Neal said, listening to the orchestra and watching his wife with the Stump's daughter. "Are you going to go or not?" He turned to Kel only to see her back as she walked slowly, yet steadily up to their training master, still against the wall and nursing a glass.

Wyldon saw the two of them arguing, and idly wondered what was important enough for Queenscove to interrupt and drag Mindelan away. Likely had to do with the company she had been keeping.

He finished his wine and placed it on a server's tray. What number was that? He hadn't been paying attention.

He normally didn't drink at these events. Usually, he didn't even show up; it had been several years, since before the Scanran war. Afterwards, with his dear Vivenne departed to the Peaceful Realms, there was no purpose for his attendance.

The only reason Wyldon attended was to play the distant chaperone to his youngest daughter, to note which brash young knights paid court to her so that he could conveniently choose them as his next training partners. It had the delightful side effect of chasing away all but the most determined, though of course he would stringently deny it to his irate daughter.

Normally he despised deception, but in this case he would make an exception.

He needed to keep a special eye on Jesslaw; Margarry seemed to have an inclination towards the hellion. Perhaps his ex-squire required more jousting lessons.

Movement towards him caught his attention, and he turned to see Mindelan walking in his direction, the oddest look he had ever seen on her face. It was a mixture of familiar determination, trepidation, and a tinge of fear.

That was odd, indeed. Rarely did anyone see fear on that girl's face.

She stopped in front of him and cleared her throat.

"Do you dance, my lord?"

"Excuse me?" Surely she didn't say what he thought she did – had he too much to drink?

She flushed lightly, the pink barely visible underneath her tan. "Dancing, sir. The orchestra is starting the next dance, sir, and I just wondered if you cared to, well..."

His hearing wasn't gone yet, apparently. Perhaps she had too much to drink tonight.

Wyldon could think of a hundred reasons why this was a terrible idea. It would destroy any remaining conservative reputation he had – training the first Lady Knight in centuries was bad enough, not to mention her pardon after the desertion into Scanra – and their recent friendliness had not gone unmarked. He wasn't sure he could do that to her; she had enough slanderous gossip to ignore.

He hadn't danced since before his wife died, and he still mourned his Vivenne, gone these past few months, taken by a fever as he fought Scanrans far away from Cavall.

Most of her year-mates were in attendance, and some of his, along with most of the powerful people at court. He glanced at Queenscove, who was watching them out of the corner of his eye. Did he put her up to it?

In her eyes, hope dimmed.

Did it matter if that irresponsible reprobate did?

His honor told him not to accept. She would be better served to remain simply a courteous training partner with whom he had much in common.

She looked away and opened her mouth, no doubt to retract her words, when Wyldon realized that for all of the many reasons why this was a foolish idea, the one that spoke up in favor was the only important one.

He wanted to, honor be damned this once.

He interrupted her. "While I understand, Lady Keladry, that you were taught with male pages, I would have thought you knew that the man is supposed to ask." He watched as the hope returned to her eyes, accompanied by good humor.

"My apologies, sir, I fear I have neglected my learning, but if I don't ask, I never dance," she grinned. "For some reason my friends are reluctant, as are most knights."

Wyldon smirked. "I believe they are intimidated. The older knights know you can hold your own with the best of them and humiliate the rest, while the younger ones are either resentful of your reputation of Protector of the Small," Kel groaned, "or are struck with a touch of hero worship."

"Wait, what?" she asked, eyes wide.

Wyldon chuckled and nodded as he gave her his arm.

As he led the Lady Knight onto the dance floor, he wistfully tucked away his wife into a corner of his mind. She was gone; she would not begrudge him dancing if it gave him pleasure.

Their marriage had been based on love and affection for the other, and he believed that she would want him happy, even if for just a few moments in the arms of another.

Of course, there was the wicked joy he felt as he watched Queenscove's gobsmacked expression as he nimbly twirled Keladry around the floor, her delighted laughter unexpectedly warming his heart.


	7. Beating Back the Tide

Wyldon couldn't remember why they had decided to ride out alone this morning.

It was a foolish idea, but they had considered themselves safe enough in the Royal Forest. No immortals had been spotted for weeks, no known bandits were using it as a hideout, no danger should have existed.

Perhaps they had wanted a time alone, away from the gossiping eyes in Corus, the rumors that sprang up whenever he and his friend spent time outside of the training yard, especially since their dance the other night. They had supposed the ride safe, bringing no more than sheathed swords and their shields lashed to their saddles.

Best laid plans fall apart at idle suppositions.

Their peaceful ride was enjoyable. They discussed news from the north, how the drought in the south would affect grain prices in Corus, and whether Pascen of Marmist would ever recover his dignity after being unceremoniously dragged from a sleep to be challenged and beaten by a first year squire. Kel managed to make Wyldon laugh at her fervent description of Pascen's poor showing, stumbling over the yard, falling over his feet, and waving his sword threateningly at the poor monitor. Being drunk was not conducive to proper duels.

Their reverie ended abruptly.

A sharp snap pierced the air.

Well-armored soldiers leapt from the trees armed with swords and spears, causing their startled mounts to rear.

The two knights wasted no breath; they unsheathed their swords and fought from horseback.

There were too many, even for them and their well-trained warhorses, and they had no armor other than light leather jerkins.

They were unhorsed swiftly as the men surrounded them and cut their saddle ties, only barely managing to escape getting trapped under their mounts.

On foot, they stood back to back in a defensive position, protecting the other, darting forward to deal a heavy blow, then retreating to a relative safety.

Wyldon yelled at Cavall's Heart to run for help. The gelding snorted and aimed a kick at the head of an attacker, only to get sliced along his haunches by another.

He shouted again, urgently. They needed help, fast.

The destrier hesitated, whirling his great head around, eyes rolled back in his head, and galloped towards the palace.

Peachblossom stayed, disregarding Keladry's pleas to flee. He danced in place as he turned on one hoof, lashing out savagely with the others, rearing and biting in a desperate attempt to maim and avoid the jabbing steel.

Cries echoed in the forest, both victorious shouts born of effort, and pain-filled yelps as red-hot lines appeared on bodies.

There were too many, they couldn't finish them all, not when each fended off three attackers at once. It was like damming the sea, or commanding the tide to cease flowing.

Wyldon gasped as a sword scored his left arm. Numbly, he fought through the pain and returned the blow, his own tearing through a thin joint in the soldier's armor, leaving a wound that quickly gushed red through the mail.

Another took the man's place and jabbed at Wyldon's middle with a sharp spear.

He blocked it awkwardly – he couldn't step aside else it would hit Keladry – and barely managed to wrench his body around to block another blow, and another.

One got through and pierced his side, though the attacker paid for it with his life.

Another swung down in a vicious two-handed strike that Wyldon barely deflected; it glanced off his left arm instead of cutting through it.

Keladry cried suddenly as she saw a hooded man away from the battle take aim with a small bow. He could not aim for her or Wyldon because of his fellow soldiers, but her horse…

A bow twanged.

An arrow sang.

Peachblossom danced his last dance.

Keladry felt her heart crack at the defiant neigh of her companion, but she couldn't take the time to mourn her ally, not yet. Bitter tears, though they stinged behind her eyes, would distract and blind her if they fell.

She fought on desperately.

They were getting tired and the men were getting more cautious; most of the remaining sported wounds in several places, but they still greatly out-numbered the two knights.

They had a temporary stalemate.

Keladry leaned back slightly against Wyldon, their sweat-soaked backs lightly touching, granting a small measure of comfort and safety to each.

Neither side could move. The soldiers – for that is what they were, being well-armed and well-trained – were leery of the steel whirlwinds and the cold eyes that wielded them. The knights could not attack, for the only reason they were still alive was because they could not be individually surrounded. Defending on three sides was difficult, four impossible.

None of the soldiers spoke to each other, Wyldon noticed, mind detached from the situation as his worn body gasped for air as it bled from multiple places. They communicated in signals and nods, but no speech.

Keladry fumbled behind her with her empty hand. Wyldon, without taking his eyes from the surrounding soldiers, grabbed her hand and clasped it in his own, squeezing tightly. He held their hands against his thigh and jerked it slightly towards the path to the castle before letting go.

Nothing needed to be said.

As one unit, Keladry whirled around as Wyldon sprang forward, violently swiping at the surprised men. One of them uttered a muffled oath as they backed away, taken unawares by the sudden ferocity.

They gave way before the desperate knights.

The path was open!

Wyldon and Keladry ran forward, hope granting speed to their injured bodies as they lengthened their strides, chased by the soldiers.

"Move!" they heard from behind.

Wyldon glanced back to see the soldiers ease to either side of the path, leaving an open lane for the archer.

His heart stopped.

"To the trees!" he cried, breaking for the cover of the brush, watching the aiming archer out of the corner of his eye.

The archer loosed again, the arrow headed straight for the knight. He saw it flying towards him and leapt for the trees, safety only a few feet away.

There was a muffled _thump_ and a piercing scream as a body dropped.

_No._

Wyldon turned to see what he feared.

Keladry lay on the ground half out of the brush, upturned face white, arrow sticking out of her back.

Without a conscious thought, Wyldon picked her up and slung her across his shoulders, staggering slightly as the extra weight reminded him of a leg injury he hadn't know about. A new sharp pricking dug into his back as he stumbled through the forest, desperately seeking to break the line of sight of the soldiers chasing them.

He ignored everything but the woman on his shoulders and her light breaths tickling his ear.

Her weak gasps were music.

They meant she was still alive.

Wyldon struggled through the underbrush, moving at a speed that would have surprised him if he were aware of it, uncaring of sharp edges or branches that slapped him in the face and wounded body. He bent low, running through tightly-packed foliage, praying that he wasn't doing more damage to the woman on his back. If anything caught the arrow and pulled…

He heard pounding footsteps and breaking branches as the soldiers followed, forced to cut through the path.

He couldn't keep this up much longer.

Hoofbeats sounded ahead.

He glanced through a break in the tree to spy several knights galloping up the path, followed by a contingent of the palace guard.

_Safety_.

Wyldon staggered out of the trees, nearly tripping on hidden rocks. "Behind us," he shouted as the guard swiftly circled the pair, their spears lowered defensively.

Movement in the forest stopped; slowly they heard the sound of retreating footsteps.

One of the knights blanched at seeing them. Wyldon recognized the horse and sighed in relief.

"Thank Mithros, Jesslaw." He never thought he'd say that.

"Lord Wyldon, Heart appeared in the stables, foaming, bleeding, we came as soon as we could, we followed her!"

"Later, Jesslaw, Keladry needs a healer immediately."

"Goddess, is that Kel?" Owen said in horror. "Here, I'll take her."

Wyldon refused to let her go. "I have her."

"Here, then take Joy." Owen nearly fell off his horse in his haste and then helped Wyldon to mount, still carrying Kel.

Wyldon held her tightly on his back and grasped the reins with his free hand as he kicked Joy into a gallop towards the palace.

"Steady, Keladry," he whispered as her face screwed up with pain at each stride. "Almost there, you shall make it."

She had to make it.

There was no alternative.

The journey seemed to last a day. In reality, it was no more than five minutes but each second seemed precious, each breath of hers expelled a miracle, each weak cough an eternity of fear.

They arrived at the palace and Wyldon threw himself off, taking the jump in stride as he ran inside.

Duke Baird met them at the doorway and ushered them into an empty receiving antechamber.

"Keladry first," Wyldon ordered, gently lowering the Lady Knight into a chair, careful not to jostle the arrow. He felt more burdened by the absence of her weight.

"No…" Kel whispered, one eye open a slit. "You… first."

"Keladry, I refuse to argue," he commanded as Duke Baird immediately stemmed the blood flow from her wound and dimmed her pain.

"This is going to hurt, Kel," Baird warned.

She gritted her teeth as the healer chopped the arrow in half, and gasped as he pulled it through her chest.

It looked like an iron flower sprouting from her chest, she thought idly as she watched the shaft grow longer as it appeared, distantly fascinated. Did the earth hurt so much when a peony was uprooted?

She sighed when it was out and watched the blood ooze out in greater frequency, mesmerized.

"Lift your arms, Keladry," Duke Baird commanded gently, motioning to Wyldon to assist. They succeeded in undoing her belt and lifting her slack arms over her head, then her shirt. Wyldon turned away for her privacy, which might have relieved her had she been more coherent. Baird swiftly bandaged her and the two men threaded her arms through her undershirt and lay her on the coach. She slowly curled up on her side, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

Wyldon stood at her side, studying her. He laid a weary hand on her shoulder.

"She'll be fine, Wyldon," Baird said, watching him with a slight frown. "You, on the other hand, need to be checked.

The knight looked blankly at him. Baird repeated his words, and Wyldon scowled but nodded slowly. He turned to a chair, but his vision suddenly grayed and his legs nearly gave out. He caught himself before he fell on Keladry, arms grasping the couch.

"I think I shall sit down," he announced to the room as he waved away Baird and fell into the chair.

The healer sighed at the stubborn knight. He gently removed the bloodied tunic and undershirt, revealing a scarred chest peppered with numerous fresh wounds. Baird talked as he worked, his magic glowing between his fingers as he touched each injury and paused. "You are nicely sliced up, my lord, cuts to the shoulder, several to your chest, side, thigh – the side being the worst – and what's that? A puncture wound on your back?"

Keladry muttered from her place on the coach, eyes that refused to focus squinting at the pair, "I believe that's from my arrow."

Wyldon frowned slightly, or at least he thought he did. Exhaustion and pain clouded his mind though he fought to speak normally. He heard himself speak as though from a long tunnel. "I suppose I have some claim as well. It was supposed to be mine from the start."

Keladry laughed weakly, then groaned as she jostled her healing flesh. "I've always been greedy, my lord."

"Go to sleep, Keladry," Wyldon muttered, clenching his teeth as the healer continued to close the wounds. In other circumstances, he would be stoic and refuse healing, but with so many injuries he did not want to fool around with blood loss or losing too much training time.

She mumbled something too low for him to hear, but closed her eyes.

"That's enough for you both for now," Baird announced. "You're both staying in the ward so I can monitor your progress."

Keladry groaned. Wyldon did not dignify Baird with a response, but the pair was cajoled and bullied to a pair of beds upstairs in the infirmary, where they immediately fell asleep.

Wyldon awoke later to a pair of clear eyes staring in his direction. "What?" he asked irritably. He sat up gingerly, feeling his healed skin tighten and ache with the movement.

"You saved me, carried me through half of the Royal Forest."

He turned to her and caught her gaze. "You took an arrow for me. It only seemed chivalrous to save you in return, and it wasn't quite half."

She shook her head slightly before she answered, wincing as pain shot through her head. "You're my commander. I'm supposed to."

He sighed. "Am I, Keladry?"

Her hazel eyes considered him thoughtfully. "No. You're my friend."

Wyldon felt an inexplicable warmth in his chest.

"And since when have you called me by my name?"

"It seemed odd to call you by your fief after the other night."

"I suppose," she answered slowly, her eyes closing. Healings always made her tired.

Wyldon watched her sleep for a time, letting himself ruminate over the thoughts he had been proactively avoiding.

If in the night, Duke Baird noticed a figure in the dark room sitting by the bedside of another, he never said anything.

It was none of his business if the figure at times reached out and touched the hand of the sleeping knight.


	8. Mourning

The two combatants circled, naked swords in hand, looking for an opening, a loss of attention, a brief wandering of mind or a wrong step.

As one, they stepped towards each other to begin their deadly dance of steel.

They feinted, lunged, quick-stepped to avoid sudden thrusts, leapt to a side and circled to counter an aggressive charge.

The face of Keladry's companion wore a look of absolute concentration, a savage grin playing on his lips as he ducked and wove, as light on her feet as herself. Dimly, she knew her own expression mirrored his, but she gave it no thought as she launched a complex offensive pattern that he blocked and returned.

It was a glorious testing of body and mind, physical strength and mental. They gasped for air, chests burning. How long until one of them gave out, or both?

This was the height of expression, the apex of their art. It was a deadly battle for control, a battle of muscle and will.

This was not peace. It was better than peace.

It was exhilaration.

As her muscles tired and breath gave out, she pushed herself past them, forced her brain to ignore the pain. Pain was weakness leaving the body.

As the sweat ran down her face, she felt refined, purified, as if all of her cares and worries and foolish dreams were swept away.

Keladry felt greater than herself, strong, powerful, unbreakable.

Beautiful.

He was too, a small voice noted distantly. While no one could call him graceful, he moved lightly with a solid purpose, grandly occupying space, filling it with his presence. His broad shoulders heaved with exertion; the exquisite concentration on his face never faltered as he sped up the tempo of their dance.

She followed, matching at every step, pushing him to push her ever upwards towards some unreachable ideal, the warmth in her chest emanating throughout her body, breath coming fast, body tightening in preparation for some unspeakable conclusion.

Suddenly they stopped, locked body to body; he bore down on her as she blocked with both hands, swords hilt to hilt. Their heads inches apart, Kel could see every drop of sweat on his face, every individual hair, the golden flecks in his warm brown eyes as they reflected something unidentifiable that burned inside of her.

They leaned closer together, struggling, muscles burning, jaws clenched, determined.

Closer, closer, closer…

"Keladry," he murmured huskily, eyes dropping to her lips.

"Wyldon," she spoke in a sigh.

His gaze flickered behind her.

His face went slack with shock, then tight with terror.

"Keladry," he said in horror.

She felt a sudden piercing pain in her chest. She looked down to see steel flowers sprouting, cutting their way through her skin, growing, growing until they pierced his own, forming a path of metal between them.

Blood bubbled from his mouth as he whispered.

"Keladry."

"Keladry."

"Keladry of Mindelan, report!"

Kel shot up from the bed, then grit her teeth as pain blossomed through her body. She grasped her chest and looked down, relieved to see it merely bandaged. Jump, having joined her at some point during the night, grumbled in his sleep. She stared at her hands until someone turned her head with an iron grip to the side; she saw the exasperated face of Lord Wyldon.

"Gods, you are a heavy sleeper," he muttered, releasing her.

"Only after healings, my lord," she answered quietly, unobtrusively searching his face, for the blood or that look, she wasn't certain. "Usually I sleep lightly."

"Thank Mithros for that." He sank gingerly onto his bed. "You were dreaming."

Kel slammed down her Yamani mask before she blushed openly. "Thank you for waking me." She looked everywhere but him. "How are you, sir?"

"Fine."

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. Wyldon did not wear a shirt, but he was covered in enough bandages to preserve his modesty. His left shoulder was swathed in cloth, as was his torso and extra lengths on his right side. How had this happened to them so near to Corus?

His grumpy voice startled her. "You never did report."

Kel decided he was annoyed at being too injured to successfully fend off a healer. She took a deep breath and spoke dispassionately.

"We were about half a mile away from the palace when about two squads of trained soldiers ambushed us behind a turn. We were… dehorsed and managed to incapacitate enough of the attackers to escape."

Dehorsed… Peachblossom was dead.

Kel gasped, eyes filling with tears. How had she forgotten about her mount? Her cranky, bad-tempered horse, broken and then pieced back together, who had carried her for ten years. He was more than her horse, he was the other side of her that she never showed, the part of her that was annoyed at other's inanities, who wanted to snap and snarl at those who sneered at her, to trick and tease and…

Her hands flew to her face as she hunched over, ignoring the pain in her chest for the pain in her heart.

She mourned her lost companion, her testy ally who had willingly carried her in every joust and every battle, with a savagery that tapped into her own, deeply buried inside of her, hidden by years of discipline, only arising in battle.

Her bed tilted and a heavy arm wrapped around her, pulling her gently into a broad expanse of crisp white. Kel was aware of nothing but the deep voice that soothed, rumbling indistinctly as she let herself cry.

Wyldon studied the girl in his arms. A few years ago, or even now if he didn't know her, he likely would have sneered at such an obvious weakness as tears, perceiving them as a loss of control and an example of the foolishness of female warriors.

Now, though, he understood a little more.

Her tears, rather than being a sign of weakness, derived from her greatest strength, her unending compassion. Only she could feel so deeply about a temperamental abused gelding, yet her mutt of a horse performed for her on par with his own horses, bred from the finest lines.

Peachblossom was only one of the incidences where her compassionate nature overrode good common sense. There were those sparrows, the dog Jump, the servant girl for whom she had missed her big examinations, that horse boy of hers she emancipated. For anyone else, all or most of these risks would have proved foolhardy, yet the sparrows led them to the spidrens her first year, Jump was as fine a warhound as the Corus and Cavall kennels could provide. The servant girl proved loyal and was making a name for herself in the bowels of Corus, and the horse boy Tobeis was instrumental in the Scanran debacle.

Which was another topic in and of itself.

Somehow, Keladry saw in animals and people what others missed. She helped them be more than what other people had forced them to be, more than themselves.

And she considered him a friend.

No, he could not fault her for her compassion, not when he was a grateful recipient of it.

After her knighthood and especially after his recommendation that she be pardoned after Scanra, he had been ostracized from those he thought friends. They wanted little to do with him after he trained and commanded the Lady Knight; they thought he was bewitched. The most base accused him of sleeping with her even as a page.

He had not controlled himself well. Such an accusation went against every principle he had lived by his entire life. To suggest that of him was willfully malicious; it meant an utter disregard for his entire life's work, for his oaths, morals, and vows.

Ansil of Groten would not slander him again, at least not to his face.

Nor was Wyldon accepted among the progressives, not that he wanted to be. He was grudgingly tolerated, but no more. He was much too fond of stability and openly leery of change to fit with that crowd.

So he stood in between, stranded by his principles, loyal to this girl who defied all of his expectations and succeeded beyond her male counterparts.

Yet he could not begrudge it, not when he had her friendship. Not when she saw something in him that everyone else missed, something that made her seek his company whether for training or escape during a court function.

His arms tightened slightly around her, rubbing her back softly, ignoring the shoots of pain that ran through his body at her weight on his shoulder and his movements.

No, he was not surprised at this softening of opinion.

Let her cry for now.

Maybe one day she would cry for him.

Slowly, Kel came back to herself, became aware of more than her encompassing sorrow. The strong heartbeat beneath her ear, the arms that narrowly missed her wound but that still stretched and aggrieved it, the chin that rested gently on the top of her head, the sensations brought themselves to her attention.

She was embarrassed, incredibly so, but it warred with a feeling of comfort and protection. Kel wasn't sure which feelings would win, but the latter confused her and the former demanded she extricate herself immediately.

Kel pulled back against the arms; they instantly lifted, leaving her sitting by Wyldon's side. She turned her head away, not wanting to meet his eyes, certain that they would carry irritation and scorn at her loss of control.

"I apologize, sir," she whispered, interrupted by a cough.

"Keladry," he sighed. "Do you think I will chastise you for mourning."

"I, yes, but, well," Kel said, confused.

He shook his head and placed a comforting hand on her knee. She looked at it for lack of anything else; it was broad and long with neatly trimmed fingernails, strong muscles, and liberal scars.

"Peachblossom was more than the horse you rode for ten years," he said slowly. "You saved him from a terrible fate, and he was loyal to you beyond anything for it."

Kel shook her head. "I know that, I do. It's just, he could have been put to pasture after the war, he was old enough for it, but I didn't want to lose him, and now I have, forever." She swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

"I rather suspect he had something to that decision," Wyldon said wryly. "He would not have been happy to be idle; more precisely, he would not have been happy away from you. He refused to leave you in danger."

"He should have fled!"

"It wasn't in his nature to flee, any more than it is in yours."

Kel nodded unhappily, unconvinced.

"Keladry, do you think anyone could have done what you did? Any of your year mates, any of the pages I've ever trained, would have given Peachblossom up for a bad job, not worth the time and effort. No one would have done as you did, no one could have. You must believe it, else you will suffer unnecessarily."

"Yes sir," she said softly.

Wyldon's hand moved from her knee to pick up her hand and grasp it.

"If you tell anyone this, I shall deny it," he warned, "but I cried when my first mount died."

Kel was shocked. Lord Wyldon, the man made of stone?

He nodded. "Aramis was the first colt I raised. I bred him, trained him, and rode him off to the palace for page training. He was my closest companion for nine years, but he died my last year as a squire, hamstrung by a dying soldier laying on the ground. In the heat of battle, my dearest ally looked up at me, and I ended his pain."

Kel squeezed his hand. What a terrible thing to be forced to do; she could hardly imagine it.

"I fought the rest of the battle with blurred vision. I am not sure how I did not die, but I kept fighting. I couldn't stop; my knight master eventually found me hacking at corpses to make sure they were dead.

"He told me what I am telling you, though I didn't believe him at the time.

"Compassion for friends is not a weakness. Peachblossom was better off for you, and he went the way he would have wanted, fighting with his last breath to protect you, his ally, his best friend.

"And if you breathe a word of this to Queenscove, I will challenge you at every tournament for the next twenty years."

Kel laughed hoarsely. "I understand; you have to keep up your reputation, my lord."

Wyldon nodded with a smirk, and then hesitated slightly as he slowly released her hand.

"Are we friends, Keladry?"

"I believe so, sir."

"My friends may call me by my given name."

Kel, touched, reached out and grabbed his retreating hand. She squeezed it tightly once, and let it drop between them. "Thank you, Wyldon."

They both knew she was thanking him for more than the privilege, but there was no need to say more.

They understood each other perfectly.


	9. Muddled Musings

Muddle Musings

Thank you to my most determined reviewer, SarahE7191, and the best review I have ever had bar none, Fairy Knight. It's people like you that keep me going, and I appreciate it.

* * *

"Are you ready yet, Keladry?"

"Coming," Kel replied, opening the door to her room and stepping outside. Jump, having refused to leave her side since finding her the night before, followed her closely on her heels.

Wyldon nodded a greeting to the pair and gave the dog a pat. They strolled slowly down the hallway towards the king's office, lost in their thoughts.

Kel felt much more like herself after a good sleep. Her back was much improved and her aches diminished to the level she felt after a hard day of training. So long as she moved carefully and deliberately, she could largely ignore the plaints of her body.

Her mind was unsettled with thoughts of Lord Wyldon, no, just Wyldon.

It was difficult to break a habit of many years, even in her thoughts. She had been a touch sad when they left the infirmary ward, but also a bit grateful. They had come to an understanding, the two of them, one that filled her chest with a warm glow. He considered her an equal, a comrade in arms.

Her dream, though, that was extremely unsettling. Why had she dreamed it? The first part, the bout, that was innocuous and perfectly reasonable, but the end of it…

They had nearly kissed.

But that had been a dream.

This morning when he held her to his wounded chest and spoke soothing words of comfort into her ear as she cried, she had felt protected. Enclosed in his firm grasp, it was as if the world paused for a moment to let her unburden all of her fears and worries. When he admitted his own tears, it made hers no longer seem a weakness, and she felt a connection to him as tangible as the steel flowers in her dream.

Could she actually be attracted to her old training master?

Well, not _old_, exactly. She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He was older, certainly, broad-shouldered, with a sharp and craggy face lined by time and scars. He was largely bald, though bits of silver threaded through his remaining hair at his temples. His constant training ensured that he was still in peak physical shape, regardless of his age, and while his clothes didn't bulge with muscle, he was very solidly built.

Wyldon was not the type of man she was usually attracted to.

Neal? Tall, lanky, cheerful, dramatic. He always wanted to cause a scene, to be seen and recognized. He was an excellent friend, but he was attracted to beautiful flowers of womanhood, not girls with bigger muscles than him. Her crush had lasted years until Cleon.

That big soft redhead was also cheery, with Neal's penchant for flowery language. He made her laugh where she might have smiled, grin when she might have nodded politely. At the same time, she liked Dom.

Dom was just like Neal, in body and character, and his dancing blue eyes and playful laugh had warmed her heart for too long. She wasn't certain when her feelings for him ceased; it had been a gradual decrease until she thought of him as merely an attractive Sergeant.

No one else had caught her eye, until now.

Kel frowned as she considered that all of her crushes were on Players, and all of her "romances" had been fairly disastrous. She only actually dated Cleon, and Kel hadn't even thought of him that way until he approached her. Her feelings had evaporated when they were separated for so long.

Kel hated that she was so fickle.

Still, maybe it would work out in her favor.

Her previous crushes were long-lasting, more or less continuing for years. Wyldon was almost the exact opposite of Neal and Dom, stronger than Kel, more serious, possessing a wry wit that he showed few people, as opposed to Neal's attention-seeking theatrics.

All things considered, Kel decided that this was a passing fancy. It wouldn't last long, hopefully.

Hers was a crush brought on by stress and proximity.

It was rather uncomfortable to think of Wyldon as an object of romantic interest.

Especially as it was doomed. He had trained her, he was her commander for several years. He would never reciprocate; gossips in the palace claimed that Wyldon had deeply loved his wife Vivenne, even though no one could reconcile the dour training master with an ardent lover. Pages and squires alike shuddered at the thought.

No, there was no chance of Wyldon deciding that the Lady Knight was an adequate substitute for his gorgeous dead wife.

Kel told herself that she was an idiot, that she didn't care.

Still, she let her eyes discreetly drink their full of him as they walked together in silence.

Wyldon considered the woman beside him, the way she walked with grace and strength, how she was so completely lost in thought that she did not remark when a young squire, obviously trained by him, happened to walk by and nearly fell over his feet at seeing the amicable pair.

Perhaps she was as disturbed as he after yesterday and this morning, though undoubtedly in a different way.

He knew she didn't regret their formal commitment to a friendship. After all, they had been treating each other as such for weeks.

Did she regret his comforting her this morning? She was a very strong and independent woman; perhaps she was offended at his presumption. Nor was she physically demonstrative, and she had quickly removed herself from their embrace.

Very well. If she disliked his friendly touch, he could withhold it. Doing so might possibly prevent his thoughts from getting so muddled with the sensations that flickered through his mind too quickly to understand. It was better for him, anyway.

Wyldon ignored the brief feeling of loss that coincided with his decision. It was unfamiliar. It wasn't important.

Keladry was a friend and no more. He wasn't used to female friends or how to handle them; he knew females only as daughters or as a wife.

_Vivenne. _

Wyldon had never expected love. His own parents were the perfect example of an arranged marriage. They tolerated each other and lived in separate wings of the house, only coming together for meals or court appearances. They remained publically faithful, and neither pried into the other's private life. Wyldon considered that his marriage would be the same.

Then once, when on leave to Cavall soon after his knighting, he saw Vivenne for the first time. He was desolate, having just lost his horse Aramis, when he walked into the stables to see an angel briskly rubbing down their best breeding stallion.

Wyldon had asked her, abruptly and uncivilly, if she could ride the eighteen-hand horse, to which she had laughingly replied, "Aye, and better than you."

He fell in love immediately and spent the next three years courting her, the youngest daughter of a neighboring fief, until she finally agreed to marry.

Wyldon's youngest sister Elsabenne still hadn't forgiven her for what she called, "her arrogant presumption" for marrying her favorite brother.

Elsabenne was rather spoiled, and particularly adept at holding a grudge. Whenever she visited Cavall, she did so to indulge her nieces tremendously and to tease her brother while mildly tolerating her sister-in-law.

Wyldon and Vivenne had many happy years of marriage and four lovely daughters, though the long separations due to his being training master were quite difficult on both of them. He had relied on her impromptu visits during page training to get through until his short leave.

Vivenne had known him perfectly, had known when to leave him to his stubbornness and when to kick him out of his misplaced dignity.

He would always miss her, though he was at peace.

Wyldon never expected to love again. Once in one lifetime was more than most people found.

Therefore, this _softening_ towards Keladry was nothing more than concern and admiration for a skillful friend. His impulse to comfort her was born from a desire to see his friend happy, restored to her previous good humor and steady composure.

That was all.

The two of them were rather surprised when they finally arrived at their destination.

Wyldon held open the door and they walked into the king's office, bowing.

King Jonathan looked up from the paperwork on his desk. He nodded respectfully to Wyldon and smiled broadly at Keladry.

Kel hid her scowl. The king's magnetism had never worked on her, but it seemed he wouldn't stop trying.

"Lord Wyldon, Lady Keladry, I am pleased to see you so soon. I trust you have recovered from your injuries?"

"Quite, your majesty," Wyldon answered. Kel let him speak for both of them; she respected the king but was not fond of him.

Jon studied the two blank faces in front of him. It was at times like these that he missed Alanna, the person who never had an emotion she couldn't express, who never hid her opinion when she could voice it, vehemently.

These two were a mystery more often than not, which was more frustrating than Alanna's inability to shut up.

"Report on the incident of yesterday," he said, leaning forward in his chair and waiting for one of them to speak up. He saw Keladry glance at Wyldon, who nodded slightly before he spoke. Interesting.

"The Lady Knight and I rode out into the Royal Forest. Half a mile in, as we rode around Benek's Bend, we were ambushed by at least two squads of well trained soldiers."

Jon frowned. Well trained, that did not sound like bandits; that sounded like trouble.

"My mount fled to the palace to seek help. We fought off the attackers and eventually managed to escape through the underbrush until the contingent of guards arrived. I believe their presence caused our attackers to flee in order to escape detection."

"Were there any identifying characteristics? It seems you believe they were not bandits, and I am inclined to agree."

"They were remarkably silent, sire," Wyldon answered. "They did not communicate or give orders during the fight, though one did swear to Shai South-wind."

"K'miri? What do they have to do with this mess?"

Keladry spoke up for the first time. "Wyldon, the archer was the leader. He stayed out of the melee and I noticed him commanding with gestures. He spoke only once, and I thought he had an Eastern accent."

Wyldon nodded. "You are correct, Keladry. He assuredly had an eastern Tortallan affectation."

Jon almost keeled over in shock. The conservative training master and Tortall's first Lady Knight, on equal terms? Wyldon of Cavall was a notorious stickler for formality; few people at court were allowed to call him by his first name.

The king forcibly brought his mind back to the conversation. "Yes, you would know, Cavall being prominent in that area. Cavall, Tirragen, Whitehorn, Goldenlake…"

Wyldon cleared his throat. "Stone Mountain as well, sire."

Keladry and Wyldon looked at each other again before he continued. "We are in agreement that this was not an accident, your majesty. They had a clear view of us as we rode around the blind corner, and someone gave a signal."

"You believe that you were the target?"

"One of us, or both."

Jon leaned back in his chair, hand stroking his chin in thought. "I shall make inquiries," he said slowly, "beginning in the area of Goldenlake and moving southward. If the leader is from there, there will be signs, whispers of recruiting."

"Until we know more, both of you are to be on high alert."

They bowed no more than strictly required.

Keladry turned to leave, but Wyldon ignored the implicit dismissal.

"Sire, before the Lady Knight and I get reassigned, I have a request that we be granted leave enough to visit Cavall." He continued on, disregarding the looks of confusion on both the king and Keladry. "Keladry lost her mount in the battle, and I wish for her to replace him from my stables."

"Wyldon, no, you don't have to, you shouldn't," Kel stuttered, blushing.

"Cavall does train the finest mounts in Tortall," Jon noted, surprised yet again by the two's close relationship. Surprised and perturbed. What did this mean, these opposite people working together, doing far more than simply tolerating each other?

"Permission granted. You may leave as soon as your injuries allow."

Wyldon nodded. "Thank you, sire." That was an implicit command to leave soon so as to return quickly.

They bowed again and left the room.

Before the door closed, Jon could hear them speaking.

"I appreciate it, I really do, but it's unnecessary, Wyldon."

"Nonsense, Keladry. I shall not allow you to ride an inferior horse, not when I can provide you with a true Cavall mount."

"You are a horse snob! I never suspected…"

Their quiet laughter died away.

Jon shook his head. If someone had told him that morning that the staunch conservative knight and the young progressive female knight were friends, he would have laughed until tears fell.

A request to pardon her was one thing, but a friendship?

Jon hadn't been sure that the stiff Lord of Cavall even understood the concept.


	10. Cavall

Kel had mixed feelings as she saw glimpses of Cavall manor through breaks in the trees. She had unexpectedly enjoyed herself on the week-long journey from Corus, largely thanks to her company.

Wyldon, relieved of command, away from the confines of the palace walls and the inquiring eyes of busybodies, had never been more personable. Of course, that was relative to him; had Neal acted the same way, Kel would have considered him to be sulking.

Although they had left Corus in secret, they both wore full armor while they rode. It was extremely uncomfortable and cumbersome, but it had not been a discussion. Both knights considered the attack had targeted them and were leery of riding unprotected even if no one but the king knew of their destination. Wyldon had left Margarry in the care of her austere great-aunt, though the girl had at first pouted and then argued heatedly when her father was not to be swayed by sulks. It had been for naught, and she was left at the palace under a guardian stricter than even her father, for he at least left her for the training yards daily.

Kel had to deal with her own pouting dependent. Tobeis was not amused at having to stay in Corus, though he was slightly gratified when Kel was able to introduce him to the Riders' horses, through Daine. He would serve as assistant horse-master to Onua in Kel's absence, and she suspected that he might not wish to ride off with her when she left for her next posting, or at least could be persuaded to stay and continue learning his letters while working.

Within a day of leaving Corus, Kel and Wyldon were talking as if they were old friends. She had told him the full story of her mother's saving the Yamani relics, as well as the reason behind her earlier fear of heights.

He had been furious with her brother for his malicious bullying. Kel had assured him that Conal had been punished severely.

"Father nearly disowned him," she explained, to Wyldon's mollification.

Wyldon shared stories of himself, his early days as a page, misadventures as a squire, though he had never been a rambunctious child.

"I have always been conscious of my position," he told her as they rode one day. "Cavall is an important fief, in the Book of Gold. My ancestors would have sent more knights to the Crown but for the Cavall predilection towards daughters. As the oldest son, I was quite aware of my present and future duties."

Kel was sure that Neal would have made a comment about him always being a Stump, or at least a tree branch, as a child. She could imagine a young Wyldon, always on his formal dignity, industriously training and studying, never wasting time with frivolity. The thought made her a little sad, but she rolled her eyes at folly. She was much the same, after all.

When tentatively asked, Wyldon had even told her about his wife.

"Mithros, girl," he said wryly, "I am not going to break down at the mention of her name. I loved her, she loved me, we had a happy marriage, she died, I mourned her, I released her. She is in the Peaceful Realms, now."

They rode in silence for a few minutes before Kel could respond. "You will see her again, Wyldon."

He had nodded, a bit distant. If he had to swallow past a lump in his throat, Kel would never tell another.

Soon after, he had recovered enough to relate to Kel how they met at Cavall's stables, and their subsequent three-year courtship before Vivenne had finally agreed to marriage.

"I am certain she did it to torment me," he had said in a tone that, if used by another person, Kel would have called grumpy. Still, she muffled her laughter and solemnly agreed with him, which led to stories of his daughters' antics.

Kel had wondered after her first year of training how Wyldon seemed so knowledgeable about girls, but everything was made clear when he told her of their first crushes, and how puberty seemed to change each of them from mild-mannered young ladies to boy-crazy hooligans.

He seemed disgruntled just remembering them, though the stories tested Kel's resolve not to laugh. She managed it more often than not though on occasion it did burst out of her control.

But now, in sight of Cavall, Kel was saddened to have the first part of their journey complete. Wyldon had been largely open to her and free with his past. She was also relieved; his trust in her and calm enthusiasm in her past made it more difficult to wrestle with her growing attraction.

Wyldon was never so handsome as when he smiled and, on rare occasions, when he laughed.

Kel swore that his laugh was the most wonderful sound she had ever heard.

They rode through the gates into the fief walls, Jump sitting in Hoshi's bag for the first time since they left. Wyldon nodded to the people who lined the road to greet him, slowly walking Cavall's Heart through the tight throng.

Kel followed close behind. She was impressed at the reception, as not all commoners greeted their returning Lords with such happiness.

Still, she was pleased to be through the town and on her way up the hill. Hoshi was well-trained, but no horse enjoyed crowds of people.

They finally entered the walls around the manor house to be greeted by old servants and one beautiful Lady standing on the steps to the entrance.

"Wyldon!" she called out eagerly, hurrying towards them. "I wasn't expecting you at all, yet here you are! What strapping young knight have you brought, brother? I don't recognize his shield."

Kel took off her helmet and got her first good look at Wyldon's youngest sister, Elsabenne. She was petite with a laughing face and long black hair pulled back. She wore a simple but pretty linen dress, and she looked utterly stunned at Wyldon's companion.

"Lady Elsabenne," Kel dismounted and bowed.

"Elsa, meet Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan," Wyldon drawled, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Kel looked at him in surprise. She had never heard that teasing edge in his voice before. At the moment, he sounded more like Neal when he was trying to provoke Dom.

Elsabenne shot her brother a significant, and disgruntled, look. They would talk later, and she would find out the story behind Tortall's strictest training master and only official Lady Knight. Last she had heard, Keladry of Mindelan had been sent on a secret mission in Scanra, though some gossips claimed she deserted and was forcibly brought back by Lord Wyldon.

Elsa would get answers from her brother very shortly.

She bent down to greet the dog, holding out her hand for a cautious sniff. "And who is this fine fellow?" she cooed. Accepted, she gave the mutt a few quick pats and scratches. "You're getting a bit long in the tooth, my new friend," she informed him.

Kel hid her flush behind her mask. She wanted to make a favorable impression on Wyldon's sister, and being thought of as careless with her animal friend was not a good way to start. "Jump is with me, my lady. Since an… incident a few days ago, he has refused to leave my side."

Jump, having completed his compulsory examination of the new person, proved Kel's words as he withdrew to sit at her feet, peering up at her expectantly.

Kel appeased him by scratching his favorite places.

"That incident is why we are here, Elsa," Wyldon said, watching the two interact. "Keladry is in need of a horse, and I am going to provide her one from the Cavall stables."

"What? Wyldon, no, I can pay for my own mount," Kel looked up with a scowl. Elsabenne's mouth dropped. This young girl was on first-name terms with her stickler brother?

"Absolutely not."

"Why? I have a purse from the Crown from the war, I can afford it."

"I am the lord of Cavall, Keladry, and I say you will have a horse from my stables. I will not let you waste your gold."

Kel frowned darkly. She disliked being beholden, not when it was unnecessary.

Elsabenne, watching the proceedings with great interest, interjected. "I'm afraid, Lady Keladry, that you will not win. My brother is the most obstinate man in Tortall."

She heard a muttered, "and she the most determined," from Wyldon, but the woman in question didn't seem to hear it.

Elsabenne continued. "Let me get you settled in, Lady Keladry. I am sure you will spend a few days here to properly decide on your mount."

"Please, my lady, call me Keladry, or Kel."

Elsa nodded once and turned towards the manor as servants lead away their horses. She overheard her brother speak quietly.

"Let me do this for you, Keladry."

"But Wyldon-"

"Let me do this for my friend."

Keladry paused, then answered begrudgingly, "Fine. Thank you, Wyldon."

He chuckled. "I am pleased you are grateful," he teased lightly, a slight smile in his eyes. He patted her shoulder and then swept up to Elsabenne, taking her arm decorously.

"To what do I owe this fine surprise, dear sister, for your presence at Cavall?" He ignored the significant look she gave him.

"You know me, Wyldon. Without a fief of my own, I take it upon myself to come and meddle with yours."

A servant in Cavall livery cleared his throat to draw Kel's attention. She spared one last look at the siblings' retreating backs and followed the servant to her rooms.

* * *

Elsabenne was getting irritated at her brother. He insisted on pleading ignorance, that there was nothing untoward about his relationship with the girl.

"We are friends," he stated as a matter of fact, "due to mutual respect for each other. To insinuate anything else is a falsehood and an affront to me."

"Whatever happened to the 'presumptuous wench on a futile quest for knighthood and doomed glory'?"

Wyldon scowled. "That was over ten years ago before I even met the girl."

"You waxed quite eloquently in your letter."

"Times have changed!"

"Indeed they have," Elsa muttered. They settled into an uneasy silence, Wyldon reading the financial ledgers and steward reports, Elsa staring into the fireplace, anxiously thinking.

Her brother was exceedingly defensive over this woman. Granted, her face was pretty enough, though to be fair, Wyldon had never been shallow enough to care about looks. _That woman _Vivenne had snagged him with her wiles and love of common interests, stringing him along for years before ending his love-struck misery.

The best thing _that woman_ ever gave Wyldon were his daughters.

Elsabenne would have to watch this Lady Knight. She had no qualms in protecting her brother. He was a brave and skilled knight, certainly, and very intelligent in most ways, but he tended towards being oblivious about women.

Elsa still wasn't sure how his wife had caused him to fall in love so quickly. She had thought Wyldon was too stiff and formal to anyone outside his immediate family to fall in love. Elsa considered, half seriously, that she had witched him, or had someone else put a geas on him.

Yes, she would watch her brother and this upstart. Quite closely.

* * *

Kel stared into the large brown eye facing her.

The eye stared back.

She slowly reached out a hand to let the horse catch her scent.

Kel whipped it back in time to avoid the snapping head, the teeth making an audible clack as they closed on air. Jump stayed behind Kel, unwilling to venture closer.

"None of that, Master Merry," she lectured sternly.

"Merry has always been particular," Elsabenne offered unhelpfully.

Wyldon sighed. "We were never able to train it out of him."

Kel shook her head, keeping her eyes locked with the horse's. "You shouldn't. He is himself, a warhorse, not some lady's mare. Besides," she added dryly, "I'm used to it. An even-tempered warhorse would be rather boring."

She offered her hand again. Merry eyed it carefully, then sighed as if making a decision. He lipped it slightly, then pulled back to glare at her imperiously.

"You certainly have character," Kel remarked as she went into his stall to saddle him.

"Are you sure, Lady Keladry? Merry is rather large," Elsa said dubiously.

Wyldon's laugh sounded like a bark. "Keladry's first mount was nearly this size, and she rode him at ten. I never could figure out how he didn't throw you."

"We came to a mutual understanding," Kel said with a muffled laugh. "And I asked Daine for help, just to heal him and to translate. That is why I never wore those star spurs, Wyldon."

He nodded as if a mystery had suddenly become clear.

Kel appeared at the opening of the stall, leading Merry by the bridle. When he tried to pull away, she shook him firmly and directed him towards the riding field to put him through his paces.

She was confident that this was her next horse. Not Peachblossom's replacement – no horse could replace him in her heart – but he was shaping up to be equally as cranky and restless. Kel admired that, in a way. Merry wasn't quite tamed; he had a hint enough of the wild to be fierce and fearless, exactly the mount that she needed, able to connect with her hidden passionate side as Hoshi could to her calm exterior.

Wyldon watched her walk Merry to warm him up, and she then began to exercise him by trotting, cantering, and galloping, followed by jumps.

She was an excellent horsewoman, he mused, watching her take the hurdles with ease, controlling the large destrier with subtlety.

Keladry was a wonder to behold.

"Oh no."

He shook himself out of his musings and turned to his spoiled little sister, raising an eyebrow at her exclamation.

"You like the chit!" she gasped with dread, putting a pale hand to her forehead. "I can't believe it, you and her! What about _that woman_?"

"As I recall, you never liked Vivenne," he retorted, "and I already told you that Keladry and I are just friends. I resent your accusation that there is more between us."

"Then why can't you take your eyes off her?" Wyldon, startled, drew his gaze away from Keladry as she tested Merry's war maneuvers, her determined face bearing a slight smile. "That's what I mean, Wyldon!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Elsa," he responded, irritated. "There is nothing else, there never can be."

She groaned. "So it's true?"

His face grew dark. "I fail to understand your meaning. Nor do I want to. If you insist on slandering Keladry, then you can leave Cavall for your husband at Josu's Dirk. I will not stand for it here."

Elsa gaped at him. Wyldon had never threatened before to send her away.

This was serious.

She couldn't leave for home until she either knocked some sense into his stubborn head or put the fear of the Mother in that chit.

Elsa was trying to figure a way to regain her lost favor and dignity when Keladry came in, grinning broadly, her eyes shining brightly.

"He's perfect," she gushed to Wyldon. "Not a flinch, not a single misstep, and he could have cleared the highest jump twice over. His training was masterfully done. You were absolutely correct, Cavall does breed the best horses."

Wyldon's expression transformed immediately from irritated to pleased, even happy, as a smile played on his lips.

"He is yours," he said quietly, but firmly.

Kel shook her head, still awed. "Wyldon I just, just can't thank you enough, but I won't argue because I can tell a losing battle."

Before she lost her courage, Kel stole quickly up to Wyldon and stood on her toes to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. She blushed furiously and hustled Merry to his stall for a quick rub-down.

Wyldon raised a stunned hand to his cheek.

Elsa clucked disapprovingly and flounced out of the stables, leaving behind her gobsmacked brother.

A woman's instincts were never wrong.

* * *

Over the next few days as they relaxed at Cavall, Elsabenne took the opportunity to study the Lady Knight, especially when she and Wyldon were together.

What she saw was slightly disturbing.

Wyldon had always been a dour man, even as a child. Her oldest brother, as far back as Elsa could remember, was quicker to frown than smile and more likely to do neither. He was inflexible and balked at the very idea of change, though when faced with evidence that he was wrong, Wyldon immediately switched positions without reservation and held the new idea with equal fervor.

Stringent morality defined his character, the Knight's Code his manner. His word was intractable and absolute, his honor above reproach.

All of this together made for a man who had been called the most conservative knight at court.

That he could stand the Lady Knight's company was one thing; it could be born from familiarity, as he had been both her training master and her commander.

That he actually enjoyed it?

Impossible, yet undeniable.

He seemed softer, almost, certainly more apt to smile when she was around. He frowned less, wore his blank expression less, that emotionless face Elsa loathed.

Several times, Elsa actually saw him reach out to touch the chit, always innocuously on her shoulder or arm, but what was disconcerting was the amount of times he began to move but aborted his action before she noticed.

No matter how vehemently he denied it, his body language spoke the true story. He leaned towards her when she neared, and slumped almost imperceptibly when she left. His face relaxed when she spoke and resumed its usual tenseness when she turned her attention elsewhere.

The girl reacted in similar ways. Her neutral expression opened in Wyldon's company. She considered every word he spoke, though she did not always agree with them and was not hesitant in declaring so. She always looked for him when she entered a room and either brightened or dimmed depending on his presence or absence.

Both of them followed the other with their eyes when they thought no one was looking.

The pair spent too much time together, training in the courtyard, riding in the fields, or secluding themselves away in his office to complete paperwork and read reports.

Elsa admitted against her will that they were a wonder to behold when they trained together. They jousted a few times, as Wyldon always kept a few ready lances at Cavall, and she was amazed that he never once unseated her. Elsabenne didn't think he went easy on her, that was contrary to his character.

Their sword fights were equally amazing. They moved as one, switching instantly between offense and defense, both reluctant to give ground and determined to take it. Neither ever gave up until they were dealt a fatal wound, and to her surprise, they each won about half the time. Elsa wasn't used to seeing her brother lose, yet he took it in good grace, even as a matter of pride that his pupil outperformed her master.

They were well-matched in some ways, Elsa bitterly considered, but it was not enough. That girl would break his heart, like it broke when that woman died.

* * *

Kel knew that Wyldon's sister didn't like her.

Whenever both women were together, she felt herself being measured and left wanting. It was a most uncomfortable sensation, but she didn't know how to approach Elsabenne. The diplomat in her wanted to clear the air if possible; her logical side wanted to wait for her to approach.

If Elsabenne had problems with her, she should be the one to bring it up, Kel decided. There was no need to start a confrontation.

Still, it was not a surprise when Elsabenne cornered her the night before they were to leave Cavall.

"We need to talk, Lady Keladry," the woman informed her imperiously.

Kel bowed silently and followed her into the library for privacy. No matter how many times she offered, Elsabenne refused to call her by anything other than her formal title.

She was obstinate, just like her brother.

"Wyldon is outside in the kennels," Elsabenne announced. Kel nodded in agreement. She usually knew Wyldon's general location.

The woman gave her a hard look. Kel fought the urge to raise an eyebrow. She had been stared down by many people more intimidating than this petite lady.

Elsabenne began the interrogation. "How did you do it?"

"Do what, my lady?"

"You did something to my brother. I demand you cease immediately."

Kel sighed. "I have done nothing to Wyldon. We are friends, as I'm sure he has told you."

"I believed him as little as I do you."

"Then what do you want me to do?" Kel raised her hands helplessly. "There is nothing I can say or do to convince you."

"You could stay away. You should stay away. Do you know what this will do to his reputation, when he has worked so hard to establish his good name?"

Kel sighed in exasperation. "You don't understand. I greatly respect and admire him, and I don't want anything from Wyldon other than his friendship, so if he chooses to be my friend then there is nothing you can do about it."

"That is a lie. You want more than friendship from my brother, you can't deny it."

Kel felt a pang in her chest. She rubbed the scar where the arrow wound had healed. "What does it matter?" she answered dully. "He will always mourn his wife. I am just a friend to him, just a training partner, nothing more."

Elsabenne shook her head, but her anger eased at the lost expression on the young girl's face. For all of her training and experiences in the world of men, Keladry was not well versed in the feminine world of emotions and romance.

The girl really couldn't see that she attracted Wyldon, that he gravitated towards her, was happiest when she was around.

And the girl – no, woman – was lost, on her way towards being heartbroken because she couldn't comprehend what was in front of her.

Elsabenne took pity on her for one minute.

"I never liked Vivenne," she declared quietly, "though I tolerated her for Wyldon's sake. She was good for him, she was what he needed at that time, but she wasn't good enough for my brother. Neither are you, frankly.

"For some unfathomable reason, he likes you. I'm not certain that he knows it himself yet, but having grown up with him, I know him, and I know that he is attracted to you. Goddess knows what he sees in you, for you can't be any more different from that woman. I'm not fool enough to get between him again, but neither can I sit back and watch his heart break in silly unrequited pining. Wyldon gave his heart only once before, but he's a fair way towards giving it to you.

"Just know that if you hurt my brother, I will kill you."

* * *

Wyldon and Keladry prepared to depart from Cavall. Though she was quite impressed by the extensive stables and kennels, Kel wasn't reluctant to leave Wyldon's spoiled sister behind.

Elsabenne's final words echoed in her mind. Could Wyldon really like her? It seemed impossible, but so did his having a wife at all when she was a page. The lady claimed to know her brother well, but what ad she seen of him in the past years? People change, he certainly did.

Wyldon had asserted several times that they were friends. He hadn't given any indication of romantic interest in her, not so much as a longing look.

She snorted at her feminine sentimentality. Wyldon, a lovesick fool?

No, Cavall had made several things clear to Kel. She was more certain than ever of her feelings for her old training master, but Kel had no expectation that they would ever be returned.

She threw a stick idly for Jump as the siblings said their goodbyes, and scolded Merry when he pulled impatiently against her hold on his bridle.

Wyldon and Elsabenne stood off to the side, speaking quickly and quietly. Their conversation paused, goodbyes completed, when Elsa put a hand on her brother's arm.

"She isn't good enough for you," she said softly without rancor.

"Elsa-"

"No, let me finish. No one is good enough for you, but that woman made you happy last time, and you're just as happy now with Keladry." She shook her head and gripped harder when he began to interrupt. "Listen to your heart; I know you have one. If you enjoy being around her, if you enjoy her company, then you might be friends.

"But if you find yourself wishing you were with her, or if you look for her when you don't mean to, then you are more than just friends."

Elsa smiled wistfully. "This is sad, Wyldon. You've been through marriage just as I have, yet why must I give you advice?"

He returned her smile. "You were always smarter than me."

"At least you finally acknowledge it."

The siblings laughed and hugged each other. One left for the house and looked back. The other mounted a waiting horse and joined his willing companion.

As they rode down the path away from Cavall, if either of them looked at each other with a lost expression, there were no witnesses and the other was as like to misread as to return it with one of their own.


	11. A Revelation

Kel dragged her wet and weary body towards her rooms. They had finally arrived at Corus after a few days of very damp weather and little sleep, a result of the rain and her growing preoccupation with Wyldon. She was quite ready to sleep for a day before facing her friends, and that included her newest one.

Jump preceded her to the door, sniffing it thoroughly. He craned his blocky head at Kel and wagged his tail slightly.

Kel sighed. "What friend has invaded my room, Jump?" The list of people who had a copy of her key was short. She turned the door handle and found it locked.

"Neal," she sighed again. Alanna the Lioness' disreputable husband had taught her year-mate a few skills, including lock picking. Kel inserted her own key and pushed in, greeting her oldest friend with a tired smile.

"Hello, Neal, what brings you here? I just got in, and if you don't mind, I'd like to change." She gestured to her wet clothes.

"Nice horse." His voice was flat.

Kel didn't hear it; she gave a genuine grin. "So you saw me ride in? That's Merry, and he's a dream. Well, a bit bad-tempered," she amended as she sat at her desk to pull off her boots, "but he's superbly trained. I got him from the Cavall stables; Wyldon insisted."

She froze for a second; Wyldon's name had slipped out. She looked closely at her friend for the first time since entering the room, and it struck her as alarming that Neal was not smiling, instead wearing an expression of grimness that she had never before seen. He ignored Jump's attempts to entice him into a nice scratch.

"So that's where you were, Cavall. And it's Wyldon now, is it?"

"Neal…"

"No. Don't _Neal_ me. Do you know how many people call him by his first name?"

Kel shrugged, hiding her flush. She hadn't meant to tell Neal, not when she was too tired to explain it properly. Neal had a blind spot the size of Corus when it came to their training master. "His friends?"

"Kel, my own _father_ doesn't call the Stump by his first name, and he's worked with the man for two decades."

"If you're trying to get at something, just say it, Neal. I'm too tired for your games." She eyed her friend uneasily. He looked as if he were about to burst.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Your absence has been noted by people," he began slowly, "as has his, and the inordinate amount of time you have been spending together." Neal examined Kel's closed expression and switched tactics. "What did you pay for your Cavall horse?"

He knew he was onto something when she shifted uncomfortably and glanced away, so he pressed his advantage. "You both disappeared at the same time, and after your dance… people have been talking."

"When do they not talk about me?" Kel commented neutrally. "I've been in bed with half of the knights in Tortall, yourself included."

"Well, this time it's different," he snapped. "This time there is substance to the gossip and people are actually listening because it's not implausible. A young woman, her old training master, training together, riding off in secret."

"So you believe the rumors?" Kel felt cold chills running through her body.

He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced. "I don't know what to believe, Kel. I don't want to think that my best friend is our old training master's mistress, but you're not making it particularly easy for me."

Kel sat in a peculiar frozen state, distracted by an odd ringing in her ears. Neal's voice came as from a long tunnel and his words pierced her. She rubbed her scar.

"Don't give me that Lump expression, Kel! I'm your friend, not him; don't I have the right to talk to my friend and not that godsdamned mask?"

The world moved again and Kel's Yamani mask fell away in an instant, revealing a wondering and hurt girl. "Neal…"

"Kel, he's not a stray! He's not Jump, Crown, or Peachblossom, or even Lalasa, you can't save him with a few cheerful words and hard work! He's a man, an implacable, inflexible, resentful, obstinate Stump of a man!"

"That sounds more like you than him," she answered coolly. "Wyldon has changed, but you can't see it, you never could."

"A Stump never changes," he spat savagely.

"Stop calling him that!" she leapt to her feet, breathing hard, eyes flashing. "You want me to drop my mask, to speak my mind? Fine!

"Wyldon and I are just friends, he's said it too many times for it to be otherwise, no matter how much I want more," she said bitterly. "I know it can never happen, I'm resigned, but I will not have you or anyone else blacken Wyldon's reputation. He is the most honorable person I know, and he would never disrespect his wife or me like you so crudely suggest."

"Alanna was right. I didn't want to believe it, but she was right. He's tricked you, forced you, something," he gasped in a strangled voice.

"What does she have to do with anything? She hates Wyldon as much as you, hardly an unbiased source!"

He shook his head mutely and backed up as she advanced towards him, menace in every step.

"You listen here, Neal. Stay out of this. I am capable of deciding my own mind, of choosing my own friends. I don't need you to tell me what to think or what to feel, and I certainly don't need the Lioness doing it, either. You are just as hidebound as he is, but worse, because at least he can admit that he was wrong in the past, while you are stuck as a 15-year-old page, squawking about the unfairness of the man who spent years of his life training you so you might have a chance to survive as a knight.

"Now, I'm going to go to change because I am soaked. I am going to sleep because I am tired. Do you have any problems with that, _friend_?"

Neal, backed up against the wall, shook his head frantically.

Kel moved away and pointed to the door. He took the subtle hint and fled, slamming the door behind him.

She sat back down on her chair and groaned. When did life become so complicated?

Neal was wondering the same thing as he ran through the palace towards Alanna's rooms. He hadn't seen Kel like that since, well, never.

Alanna was right. There was no way Kel could care for the Stump like that, she wouldn't betray him, wouldn't have yelled at him like that. Kel never lost control over herself, ever, and it was all the Stump's fault.

The Lioness would fix it. After four years of experiencing her sharp sword and sharper tongue, Neal was convinced that there was nothing she couldn't control, unless it was her temper.

* * *

The King's Champion shut the door on her ranting former squire. When he was in a tiff, Neal was not suitable to be in public. It took a bit of convincing, but Alanna finally persuaded him to stay in her rooms and rave to the walls. She even had the foresight to take his lock-picks and magic the door soundproof and locked before she stalked off through the hall.

Alanna didn't want him to contribute to the spreading rumors, but if what he said was true, that would be the least of their worries.

It wasn't that she doubted Neal, it was just that he was known to be a touch prone to exaggeration.

The Lioness didn't know Keladry of Mindelan well, and most of what she knew came from Neal, but she knew for a fact that the girl was level-headed, not at all prone to flights of fancy. If she liked the Stump - Alanna cringed at the mere thought - it was because he did something, addled her brain. No one with a working mind could be attracted to that old man.

He was older than herself by six years.

He hated female warriors.

He was _bald._

Alanna couldn't figure out how anyone could like him. The Stump wasn't charming or witty, he wasn't ugly, but neither did he smile, preferring to frown forbiddingly.

Surely their shared antagonistic past had kept the two at a distance? His insistence on probation for one, and Alanna had received reports over the years that the training master was particularly hard on Keladry.

Then again, it was almost easier to think of the girl as nursing a silly crush than to believe that they were friends, as Neal ranted that Kel claimed.

Friends implied equals, and it was unfathomable to Alanna that the Stump would ever consider anyone an equal to himself. There were few people she knew that were more prideful, more condescending, more prejudiced, more narrow-minded…

Alanna gripped her fire ember in a fruitless attempt to rein back her temper before she exploded a la Neal.

If he had compromised her in any way, if he had taken advantage of a young lonely girl with a big heart…

The blatant hypocrisy set Alanna's teeth grinding. He claimed his honor strictly bound him, that he could never compromise his principles, but what else would you call seducing a young star-struck inexperienced girl?

Well, she might not be able to match him on the tilting yard, but Alanna knew she could trounce him with swords.

Just the thought of humiliating the stiff hypocrite sent a thrill racing through her veins. She could see herself, sword to his throat, his worthless pleadings filling her ears, Keladry's relieved face…

Alanna's blood boiled; her vision went red.

She reached his door and with a violet-wreathed hand, shattered it to pieces.

Wyldon had been enjoying a pleasant dream. He couldn't remember about what exactly, only that it involved a soft husky voice and cool calloused hands nestled securely in his own, and a feeling of peace that soothed his tired soul.

When his door blew in with a thunderous crash, he jumped to his feet without a thought, dagger from under his pillow in his ready hand.

In the split second his tired brain had to think, he expected raiders, Scanrans, anything but the short red-haired woman with flashing violet eyes and a half unsheathed sword.

"_What_ do you want?" he snarled.

Alanna was taken aback, fury momentarily derailed at the sight of the Stump crouched defensively with a long dagger in one hand and dressed only in a loincloth. "For Goddess' sake, put on breeches," she grimaced, half turning away.

"You are the one who destroyed my door," he growled. "Tell me what you want and get out, or by Mithros, I will-"

"You'll what?" she demanded, deciding to ignore his state of undress. "You'll throw me out?"

Wyldon set down the dagger on his desk with a dull thud, taking the brief second to master his temper. "Unless you immediately state your purpose and pay to fix my door," he said in a tight voice.

Alanna was never one to take a convoluted path when a straight one existed. "What is your business with Keladry of Mindelan?"

Wyldon bit back a groan. He hadn't expected to be interrogated so quickly after his arrival, and did the godsdamned chit _have_ to destroy his door? "It is none of your concern," he said coldly, drawing himself to his full height and staring down at the short woman.

Alanna looked up at too many men in her life to be intimidated by one more. "It is if she is being taken advantage of, if she's being led on-"

"So I'm either a lecher or a faithless cad," he said tersely. "We cannot have an innocent friendship."

"No, you can't! A friendship would be difficult enough to believe, but you've convinced her to hope for more and she's suffering for it!"

A rush of emotions overwhelmed him, joy, fear, dread, anticipation, sadness, relief, and hope. The rush of blood to his head made his vision grey momentarily and he missed the next few words of the infuriating woman.

Keladry wanted more than friendship?

Their journey back, though wet and miserable, was made bearable, more than bearable by her presence. He had taken Elsabenne's advice to heart and tried to analyze what he felt for Keladry, friendship or more.

When Wyldon realized that he missed Keladry when she was gone, that nothing gave him more pleasure than to simply be in her company – whether training, talking, or dancing – he had felt a gigantic weight lifted off his chest.

He admired her too much for just friendship, found his eyes lingering in her direction too long, had too many distracting thoughts when she was near and too many depressing ones when she was gone.

As soon as his realization hit him and the burden of confusion lifted, a weight pressed down on his heart and sunk it to the pit of his stomach.

It didn't matter than he had found someone to admire, someone to ache after. It was worse that he did, for a young, smart, determined, beautiful woman like Keladry would never see an old man like him as anything other than a friend, and he had been lucky to get even that.

On the ride back to Corus, Wyldon had relegated himself to the mere crumbs of friendship.

But now…

Wyldon wasn't sure whether to kill the Lioness or kiss her.

Alanna was getting more angry by the second. Wyldon didn't seem to be listening to her; he stared in her direction coldly enough, but his hand drifted to his upper back as if not under his control.

Her temper snapped.

"Are you sleeping with the Lady Knight or not?"

He snapped back his attention to her and Alanna felt her insides quiver at the look of loathing and fury painted on his face.

"As aware as I am of the vile gossip in this place," he said tightly, "I would have expected such vitriol to come from Stone Mountain, or Groten, anyone but the only other female knight."

"It's because I am that I have the right," she retorted, eyes flashing. "Only I know what it's like to be alone in a world of men, how easy it is to fancy yourself in love, how many people want you to fail."

"You think I want to sabotage her?"

"You're doing a fine job of ruining her reputation! I don't blame her, she's confused, she doesn't know what to think-"

"How dare you speak for Keladry?" he said with clipped words. "You can't. You did not see her grow from a determined young girl into a more resolute woman."

"Because of you, I couldn't!"

He nodded sharply. "And it was the right decision. Keladry didn't need your help; she didn't need the additional whispers that you had bespelled her."

"I would never have done that!"

"Of course not, not even I would believe it, but others would have," he snapped, then continued firmly. "You think others wished for your failure? After you were revealed, they did. After Sir Alanna became known, many people hoped you would fail, but when you were a boy, you were safe in your anonymity. No one cared to gossip about Page Alan.

"Unlike you, Keladry did not hide herself. She took vicious slander and gossip at ten and handled it better than you do now at forty, and I will _not_," his voice cracked like a whip and Alanna jumped, "stand for you adding to the malicious rumor-mongering that goes on in this place. If Keladry knew, she would be heartbroken. She worshipped you growing up."

As Alanna stared at his resolute face, a revelation hit her that made her head spin.

"Goddess, you _love_ the girl," she gasped.

His face smoothed out blankly, the only hint of his emotions buried deep in his cold flinty gaze.

"If you do not leave, I shall throw you out," he said in a clipped voice.

Alanna believed him this time. She left the room with as much dignity as possible, gingerly stepping over the broken splinters of wood on the ground, and ignored the prying eyes of the servants drawn by the commotion, her commotion. The Lioness headed towards her rooms and the trapped Neal as quickly as possible without running, breaking out in a cold sweat and feeling the bitter tinge of guilt now that her anger was shocked away. Perhaps she ought not to have meddled.

The Stump was right about one thing. Keladry was old enough to make her own decisions for good or ill, and Alanna should not add to her troubles.

She would do what she could and keep Neal quiet, but Alanna thought it was already too late, the damage done after her hasty and loud accusations.


	12. Precipice

Kel slept fitfully, her mind full of stress and worries. She woke up as tired as when she began, and lay in her bed half-heartedly attempting to rouse herself.

A thought pushed its way at the edges of her mind but whenever she looked directly at it, it danced away just out of reach. Kel decided to ignore it and hope that it would become clear, and occupied herself with immediate concerns.

Her conversation with Neal, if she could call it that, was very concerning. Kel knew there was gossip about her and Wyldon – that was why they were riding together in the first place the day they were ambushed – but she didn't know that she was now his mistress.

It wasn't right. Wyldon was too honorable to disgrace either himself or Vivenne by having a kept woman. Besides, she didn't think he could see her like that, like someone to be desired for more than friendly companionship. Kel was too young, just one year older than his youngest daughter. She wasn't pretty, far too muscular and scarred. He had been her training master and then her commander. Everyone would be dumbstruck and furious, and would, like Neal, believe he seduced or somehow forced her.

What Kel had told Neal in the heat of the moment returned to the fore of her mind and she swallowed hard, blinking back tears.

There was nothing more she wanted than to be with Wyldon, enjoy his dry wit and laugh at his bitter sarcasm, to make him smile and laugh in return, to see him relaxed. Kel thought he was happier with her friendship; seeing him grieving silently after the war had been difficult when she just admired him. No, if she could, by being his friend, keep that subtle tenseness away from his face and the blank look away from his eyes, she could be content.

She would have to be.

The insistent thought tugged again and Kel let it come.

This was not a crush, the thought slowly revealed itself. This was not a silly girl's fixation on a cute boy with bright eyes and a crooked grin. This was… an understanding, a fascination, a primal attraction to everything he was, not necessarily physically, but mentally and emotionally. She saw in him something that touched her core, something that connected the two by a tangible bond, something she needed that she hadn't known she lacked.

This was not something to fancifully dream about for a while and then slowly forget. There was no replacement for Wyldon; he was uniquely himself.

This was irrevocable, immutable.

Kel's eyes flew open.

This was love.

* * *

A message from the king rose Kel from her rooms. Pushing aside her newfound realization, she dressed quickly and walked towards the king's office, where he was handing out assignments and postings to knights.

She arrived just as Alanna left the rooms. The Lioness seemed surprised to see her, and Kel watched with interest when she flushed and avoided eye contact.

Kel uttered a polite, if distant, greeting. She did not forget that it was Alanna who had told Neal about her supposed clandestine relationship with Wyldon.

Alanna motioned for Kel to wait. She took a deep breath and spoke formally to a point above Kel's shoulder. "While I did not send Neal to you, I acted in a manner unbecoming of a knight and he took my hasty words as an initiative to act. I was anxious for your wellbeing but my actions were unnecessary and harmful to you and Lord Wyldon, and I sincerely apologize."

Kel nodded slowly, taking the time to regroup her scattered thoughts. Alanna sounded like she was apologizing for more than an angry tirade to Neal. "I appreciate your contrition," she responded in the same formal tone. "Your concern was unwarranted but the sentiment gratifying."

What Kel really wanted to say was '_you should have minded your own godsdamned business,'_ but she was a noble and this was an argument between nobles with a formulaic approach traditionalized generations ago to heal breaches between nobility.

They moved simultaneously, one to the door and the other from it. Alanna met her eyes at last as they passed each other as she mumbled, "I _am _sorry, Kel."

Kel paused and said blankly, "I hope so, Lioness," before she entered the room with the monarch, ignoring Alanna's crestfallen expression.

"Lady Knight, welcome," King Jonathan smiled from behind his desk.

Kel, the picture of politeness, bowed with an acceptable greeting and stood in front of him, hands clasped behind her back and face Yamani smooth.

"I think you shall enjoy this assignment," he continued, pushing a rolled paper towards her.

With trembling fingers, Kel took the bit between her fingers and read it, her heart sinking. She wasn't going to be in Corus, this was not going to be of short duration, and she didn't even get her own posting.

She cleared her throat. "Sire, may I ask why?"

He frowned in confusion, so she gestured at the paper.

"I thought it was obvious; he specifically requested you."

"Yes, but-" Kel bit her lip. It felt like she was being kept out of the way in a place where she would bother no one.

The king took pity on her and finally explained. "As you know Glasiden of Haryse died early in the Scanran War." Both of their mouths twisted in disgust, for he had lost 19 men of the Own in the same stroke of idiocy. "His replacement is Dermond of Linshart but," he shook his head, "he's not a commander, not for a group the size of First Company. It is in Our interest that you be groomed for the position."

Kel lost her distant calm. "Sire, me? Are you sure?"

Jonathan grinned. "Raoul told me you'd say that. No, Keladry, I discussed it with Raoul and we both agree that you are the best choice. It won't happen until you are ready, of course," he waved a hand carelessly, "but it will happen, and being under Raoul's wing for a few more years will teach you everything you need to know. He is the best, and he assures me that you have the same potential."

Kel felt her cheeks warm. "Thank you, sire," she said gratefully. While the task was daunting, it was a relief to know that he wasn't putting her with the Own because they tolerated her, but because it was the best position for her to learn. Suddenly she looked forward to her assignment with anticipation; Kel loved working with Raoul and the rest of the Third Company.

She tucked the paper away with quiet pride and bowed. About to leave, Kel was stopped by the king's voice before she took her first step.

"Lady Knight," Jonathan said slowly. "I am aware that you and Lord Wyldon are good friends."

Kel stood stiff as a board, unwilling to give any hint of emotion away.

"No, I have no intention of adding to the gossip." He sighed. "Alanna has done enough of that herself."

What had the Lioness done that was so grievous she formally apologized and even the king felt it necessary to bring it up? Kel felt an anxious impulse to find Wyldon.

He continued quietly. "There was an altercation earlier. I believe he needs a friend at this moment."

Kel bowed quickly, uttered a hushed, "Thank you, Sire," and was halfway through the door before his final words reached her ears.

"… he seemed upset."

That made Kel hurry even faster. Wyldon had to be more than simply upset to let that slip to the king.

* * *

Wyldon's eyes flicked over the different options. His hand hesitated over a regular short bow, but then reached for a Yamani longbow. The foreign weapon felt odd in his hands as he stalked to the archery yard, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't chosen the Tortallan bow. Perhaps it was because he wanted a physical challenge, or maybe he was merely expanding his repertoire as a warrior, or he could just want to feel a closer kinship to _her_ through it.

There was a smooth rhythm as he pulled and released, his muscles shifting uncomfortably at the similar yet different motion. It brought him a measure of blank emptiness as his muscles eventually adjusted.

Pull and release.

How ironic that it took the Lioness to clear the growing confusion that had plagued him for weeks, ever since that fateful and revelatory joust.

Wyldon recognized it now. All of the hints and slivers of repressed emotions collected together spelled a simple, clear conclusion.

He loved her.

Keladry wasn't a replacement of Vivenne, nor an inferior substitute. They were different; he could not love them the same. He had assuredly loved his wife, for her flirtatious gaiety and her ability to coax from him lightness, for her sweet strength and uncalculated manner, and for her utter devotion to him and to Cavall.

Keladry connected to another side of him. He understood her absolutely because she was him. He understood her stubborn nature, her dedication to duty, her optimistic ideals, and her inability to admit defeat. Wyldon even understood her compassion, though hers was more developed than his, and her affinity for all things Yaman. At first that had baffled him, but he had since decided that he could at least appreciate the Yamani stoicism. Besides, he _was_ the one out here with the foreign bow.

Yes, Wyldon loved Keladry of Mindelan, and if the King's Champion could be believed, she felt a certain regard for him beyond a platonic friendship.

What was he to do about it?

He wrenched the arrows from the target and began emptying the quiver again.

Pull and release.

Kel found him where she would have been, in the training yard. To her surprise, he was at the archery courts shooting a Yamani bow. She was eerily reminded of the time when she forsook the Tortallan short bow for the foreign longbow after Vinson's confessions after his Ordeal of Knighthood.

She admired him from a short distance as she slowly approached. His form was impeccable, even though Kel knew he usually forsook everything not Tortallan, and his aim was steady as he pulled, aimed, and fired in one smooth motion. His face was blank, but his posture bespoke of conflict.

Kel waited until he emptied his quiver before she spoke.

"Wyldon."

He stopped and turned to her. Kel's breath caught as she finally recognized the look in his eyes as he tossed his mask aside to grant her the view few were allowed to see, the look she had been seeing for weeks, the one she only accepted because she now felt it as well.

The look she knew was shining from her own eyes, unwilling to be repressed any longer.

"Keladry," he acknowledged, swallowing strongly. It wasn't easy, not when she gazed upon him with such obvious pleasure and hope and devotion.

Neither of them took a step, but let their eyes and bodies declare the message only for the other, a message the other understood at last.

"Where have you been assigned?" he asked roughly.

"Lord Raoul and the Own, for a year."

"Port Legann, for a year." He did not add that he was to oversee the defense against the unstable Copper Isles caught in a revolution. It wasn't important, not at this time.

The air grew tense between them, physically heavy, filled with unbroken dreams but tinged with the knowledge of the lonely future.

Kel felt the overwhelming urge to respond, to say or do anything to break the awful silence.

Wyldon wished he knew what to say to ease their parting.

They both accepted that they would be separated for the entire time, though they railed against it in their hearts.

They could take with them during their cold absence the memory of a warm embrace, a fervent kiss, but they each feared to make the coming loneliness more bitter.

They stood on the edge of a precipice, quivering with long-suppressed anticipation, but neither dared take the plunge that would lead to something inevitably glorious.

If they began, they could never cease.


	13. Glimpse of a Memory

**A/N:** Thank you to all my new reviewers and all of my old ones. I appreciate every single one, and I do respond if you are signed in.

The next chapter will not be up for a few days - sorry to leave you on such a cliffhanger... but then again, I'm not.

* * *

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know."

"Something must have happened. She isn't the same."

"You're right. She seems a bit sad."

There was a pause before the other voice replied.

"It's almost as if she is missing someone."

"Kel?"

"I know I'm not the most perceptive person, Dom, but even I can tell when she has her mind elsewhere. Not that she's been neglecting her duties."

"This is Kel, of course. If bright Mithros himself came to her, she would politely ask him to wait until the supply reports were complete."

They chuckled, and the same young voice continued.

"Do you know of any, well, rumors of an attachment?"

"You mean any new ones? Nothing more or less far-fetched than usual, I believe the latest gossip involves her with her old training master."

"It's a short step from you to him, my lord."

"I hope it's rather larger than that, else you'll be on privy duty for the next week." There was a rustle from inside before the voice went on. "Have you heard anything from your cousin?'

"Sir Meathead, I mean Neal, is unusually quiet. He told me to mind my own business, that he was going to mind his, that Kel knew best, and whatever she did was her own affair."

"That's odd."

"I know, especially as he is usually the first to inform me of the latest palace gossip. It always pays to be informed, my lord."

"Quite." The man sighed. "I hope whatever is bothering her passes soon. We cannot help her unless she volunteers, and I dislike that down-trodden look that's been appearing when she thinks no one is looking."

Silence.

Kel, feeling tremendously guilty but strangely touched that her two closest friends in the Own noticed her low spirits, knocked on the door a few minutes after hearing nothing from inside the room. She entered, supply reports in hand, and greeted Raoul and Dom, who were poring over a map of the region fixed to the long table.

Raoul motioned her to approach, saying heartily, "Glad you're here, Kel. What do you make of this map now that you've seen the surrounding areas firsthand?"

Kel dutifully approached, briefly studied the map, and gave her recommendation.

They were in the town of Stretton Crossing in western Tortall along the coast. The village had been plagued with a herd of killer unicorns; Third Company had arrived a week ago to clear them out, but recent weather made it difficult for the Own to leave safely. The heavy spring rains had washed away some roads and left others impassable due to thick mud. Traveling was dangerous; they had no stomach for risking unnecessary injuries to their mounts.

Most of the Own was glad for a break, for Raoul had set a punishing pace during the winter due to an increase of immortal raids. Most bandits were quiet during the colder months, but as Kel had been taught years ago, many immortals had nice, thick fur and preferred moving in the winter.

Kel, however, was not pleased at the impromptu vacation, but understood the necessity of remaining for the time being. Still, she would be happier if she were in constant movement and exhausted, as fatigue meant she couldn't dwell on her thoughts.

Unfortunately, they were stuck in Stretton Crossing for a few more days.

"Is there anything for me, Raoul?" she asked.

Raoul shook his head. "Not until we start moving again. I assume you're off to ride your great bruiser again?"

"Drum is the same height as Merry," she said with a slight smile.

"Granted, but not quite so broad." He chuckled. "Merry, what an ironic name for that ornery beast. What made you think of it?"

"I didn't have the honor; he came with a name."

"You said he was from the Cavall stables?"

Kel nodded.

"Damned fine breeders, Cavall, and they don't let their horses go easily. I nearly had to beg my Lord Wyldon to let me purchase Drum, and you know how that hurts my pride."

Kel smirked a bit at the thought of the large Raoul beseeching a stony Wyldon, and her heart twinged. She cleared her throat. "I am sorry to have missed it."

"I am sure you are" he commented dryly. "You never did tell me how you pried Merry from Cavall. What did you offer Wyldon, your firstborn son?"

Kel's face cleared and she coughed before responding neutrally. "Nothing quite so incriminating; he was there when Peachblossom was killed and I assume he felt somewhat responsible."

Raoul sighed, looking at the map mournfully. "Well, if you do find a way into that man's heart do let me know so I don't have to sell my other arm and leg next time." He thought for a second, then revised, "No, forget his heart, I just want his stables."

Kel nodded with a slightly bitter smile and went to leave, but was interrupted by Dom. "Do you mind if I join you, Kel? I'm a bit cooped up here with my Lord Raoul, if you don't mind, sir."

"Go on." Raoul waved a hand in their direction. "I am just as capable as you at staring at the little lines and persuading them to come closer."

"That is to say, not at all."

They laughed; Raoul took out a small book as Kel and Dom headed towards the picket line and their horses.

"You don't really mind, do you Kel?"

"Not at all," she replied truthfully. Dom was very good company and was generally able to distract her from herself, though his presence did remind her of her past crush on him, which was unavoidably compared to her current, well, she wasn't sure what to call her relationship with Wyldon.

An understanding, perhaps.

Had there been any remaining doubts about her love for the man, these past six months would have soundly erased them. Whereas in all previous cases her infatuation died a quick death once removed from the person, her distance from Wyldon only made her ache for him more. Their sudden separation made Kel realize how much she had depended on seeing him daily. She still caught herself looking for Wyldon, expecting his presence and being disappointed at his absence. She missed their easy companionship, their jousting and sparring, his slight smile when he looked at her and his severe frown at most others. It was… endearing.

There were times when Kel was almost glad for their distance. It allowed her to realize and acknowledge that she wasn't fickle, that this strong attachment was real; it was truly love.

The thought made her chest fill with joy and warmth, but immediately following was the knowledge that she had another six months to wait before they were both back in Corus, turning her bliss into melancholy and sighs of happiness into sighs of frustration.

Kel admitted to herself that she was the slightest bit concerned Wyldon might lose his fond regard for her, but she had more fears for her own constancy than his, and yet she could not stop replaying that moment in her mind when the two of them finally admitted their love to the other, not with words but with their eyes and bodies.

Which was, if she thought about it, oddly appropriate for the two of them. They were both more comfortable with silence than chatter.

"Alright there, Kel?" Dom's voice broke into her head.

She shook her head for a second to clear them and made a face. "Just lost in thought."

"Must be some confusing thoughts. Maybe you should draw a map?"

Kel grimaced playfully at the bad joke as Dom grinned and changed the subject. "I don't think I've asked you, how is Meathead recently? Whenever I send him a letter, all I get in return is him waxing lyrical over Yuki for pages. Granted, I haven't tried the past few months."

She smiled in return. "He does that on purpose to gloat about his married state and your bachelorhood."

Dom frowned. "Shouldn't it be the opposite?"

Kel shrugged. "You know Neal, he enjoys defying expectations. As for how he's been… I haven't heard much; you know how difficult it is to get letters out and in." She very carefully did not look at Dom. "Besides, we had a bit of a fight before I left Corus, and we both lost our tempers."

"You lost your temper?" Dom was shocked. "I wasn't aware you even had a temper, Kel. What did my Meathead cousin say to set you off?"

Kel really didn't want to talk about it. "I'm not blameless either, Dom." She sighed and continued, "At least we did get a chance to make up before I left."

Kel had approached Neal, sitting with him at dinner as if nothing had changed and the years flew backwards until they were both pages again. At first, neither could look at the other, but when she swiped his extra cake and replaced it with vegetables, and he shot her a dirty look, they could not help but fall into companionable laughter. Kel then offered peace by asking after Yuki, and by mutual nonverbal agreement they didn't mention their conflict until the end of dinner. Neal solemnly asked for her forgiveness and vowed that he would never meddle with her again; Kel replied just as solemnly that she highly doubted he could keep that vow but would gladly accept the apology nonetheless so long as he accepted hers. The tension between them never quite disappeared though they parted amicably enough.

Just as they arrived at the picket line, a messenger ran up to Dom and informed him of a 'situation' between two of the men that required his immediate attention. Dom looked apologetically at Kel, who shrugged her shoulders. Duty was duty.

"Next time," he called over his shoulder as he left to resolve whatever mess his squad had created.

Kel saddled Merry and directed him towards the village gates. She couldn't ride far, as it wasn't completely safe outside the view of the town walls, but there were enough open fields to give Merry a good run.

It was important to Kel that she bond with her horse, and spending time together was the best way to do that. Merry, though excellently bred and trained, was not as intelligent as Peachblossom, though that was almost certainly due to Daine's presence in the palace. The wildmage seemed to have an effect on animals at the palace; Jump and the sparrows were the most obvious examples, though the horses were altered as well.

Kel waved to the person operating the gate as she trotted through and urged her mount into a gallop. She was careful not to rowel Merry, and vowed to ask Daine to teach him words to make the sharp spurs unnecessary as soon as she got back to Corus.

And when she got back to Corus…

Kel shoved that thought firmly out of her head. What would happen would happen, whether or not she dwelled upon it and made herself sick with hopeful anxiety.

The idea of a peaceful ride was suddenly unwelcome, instead for the next bell, her mind was agreeably distracted in putting Merry through his paces. She had him gallop and then slow to a trot and back again, sliding into war maneuvers and kicks at all speeds, and when she was certain of the ground, Kel directed him to jump over obstacles.

She slowly directed their exercise towards a nearby running stream; by the time they arrived, Merry's barrel chest was heaving and Kel was ready for a break herself.

Kel led him to the stream and let him drink as she sipped from her canteen. She patted his soft coat and scratched his large head. "Good job, Merry," Kel said, looking into an eye. "You are magnificent." He snorted as if to say, "Of course I am," and Kel laughed.

Merry swiveled his head around and cast a look at something behind Kel.

That was the only warning she got.

Strong arms slid over hers, a crushing vice that locked her arms to her body. Kel fought desperately, writhing in the grasp and ignoring the sudden dull throbbing emanating from her stomach.

She heard a muffled curse from behind as she stomped on a booted foot.

One hand around her jerked and Kel felt like she had been kicked. Glancing down, she saw the dagger handle sticking out of her body.

Immediate agony overwhelmed her, and Kel fought to keep from going into shock, but her vision began graying out until she was looking down a dark tunnel.

A cold voice sneered in her ear.

"This is for my brother, you whore."

Kel gasped, blood bubbling at her lips. There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears, that and the pain overwhelmed her senses, wrapping them in a thick haze.

She dimly heard an angry neigh; the arms released her and Kel stumbled, falling to one knee and wrapping her hands around the handle. It was a foreign intrusion, it didn't belong, Kel wanted it out, but a distant lesson stirred in her mind and she reluctantly left it in.

She swayed, watching a furious Merry fend off a man wielding a sword. If the man turned around, he would be trampled, but he couldn't strike a definitive blow on the warhorse.

With a trembling hand, Kel reached into her boot and pulled out a small knife.

She inched closer to the man, one hand holding the dagger inside her stomach and the other keeping her balance as she half-crawled, half-dragged herself.

With her last bit of strength, Kel made a desperate lunge and sunk the small knife into the man's leg, slicing downwards. She screamed as the fall jostled the dagger, pushing it in further and stretching the gash.

He gave a cry of agony and nearly dropped his sword; Merry took the opportunity and whirled around to strike him in the head with a vicious kick. He flew backwards and crumbled on the ground, blood oozing from both wounds.

Kel, lying on her side, felt a soft nudge on her face. She opened her clenched eyes to see a horse's nose, and smiled weakly. "Good boy, Merry," Kel whispered. "Go find someone, anyone."

The horse nudged her again, and then Kel heard hoof-beats pound away, slowly fading out in the distance.

Kel mustered up her courage and looked at the dagger. It did not cover the entire stab, so blood pooled up around her hands as they pressed down, applying as much pressure as she could.

She gave a soft sob of anguish as she slowly stretched herself out on the ground, every breath and every heartbeat an absolute agony.

Kel could hardly think for the pain.

Slowly, the sharp stabs dulled into throbbing aches and fatigue set in, a lethargy that robbed every trace of energy that remained.

With every breath, the next became more difficult, heavier, wetter.

Blood filled her mouth but Kel couldn't spit it out.

The pain became more distant.

Kel idly thought that perhaps she should remain awake. She forced her eyes to remain open until they stuck, unwilling to close.

The blood still flowed.

As she lay on the ground, eyes open as the bright world darkened, Kel had a fleeting wish and a glimpse of a memory, of that day when she and Wyldon stood across from each other, paralyzed with longing and fear of the unknown. She wished she had kissed him, just once, that they had-


	14. The Black God's Embrace

**A/N**: This is the final installment. Thank you everyone for your support, especially all my lovely reviewers. This is not my last piece, but it will probably be a while before I post again. Put me on your author alert and it will send you an email in a few weeks, guaranteed. Thank you again, and enjoy the last part of **Life**.

* * *

Blackness, all was blackness. Up, down, everywhere, blackness.

She liked the dark…

_At least she thought she did._

It was the absence of everything, the absence of pain…

_But she was no stranger to pain._

Nothing in the dark could hurt her, not like elsewhere…

_There was nothing there to help, either._

The dark was soothing and peaceful…

_Peace was boring._

There were no dead to mourn here…

_The living were gone too._

No friends to betray and hurt…

_Friends give happiness._

No lovers to bring confusion, sadness…

_Lovers love, too._

Darkness welcomes with open arms…

_What about Wyl-_

The darkness will always be there…

_So will he_.

Stay…

_No._

Kel felt her world tip to one side. A renewal of pain released a groan she didn't know she was holding back.

Sounds came to her ears, muted voices raised in alarm. One spoke in her ear; Kel could almost understand the words, could nearly recognize the voice. A fuzzy face appeared in her blurry vision. Kel squinted and thought she knew it.

He was speaking to her, but Kel couldn't hear over the sound of her ears ringing. Her body lifted and rose as streaks of green and brown drifted by. She rolled her eyes slowly upwards and saw bright blue.

It wasn't black.

Blackness, cold, dark, friends, lovers…

Her head cleared. She remembered.

"Dom," she gasped, drawing a short breath inwards.

His face appeared again, she recognized it this time and caught a few of his words.

"…worry…safe…healers…"

Kel wanted to believe him. She wanted to rest secure in the knowledge that everything would be alright.

"Dom…" she tried again. "Wyl…"

"Kel, save your breath."

She shook her head as her mind clouded again. "Wyl…"

Everything faded back to blackness as her world shifted again, every movement sending hot pangs of fire through her body.

Hot. Everything was hot inside.

Finally, everything stopped. Strong vices gripping her body released and left Kel to lie, shivering and trembling, stifling moans. She gazed around with glazed eyes.

Unfinished figures of shadows rushed around, movement making them blurry. Kel couldn't follow them, couldn't recognize anyone. The raucous incomprehensible voices made her panic, breath coming in pants.

A sudden voice cut through the melee. All noises stopped immediately, and the shadows marched out.

Kel blinked as her eyes focused on a hand that reached for her with light-wreathed cool fingers. It touched her forehead first and sent chills that chased away the blistering heat. A memory caught her, one of a different cool hand though similar pain, but another had been there that time…

Where was he?

Kel felt his absence. He wasn't any of those shadows pacing around, and she knew she would recognize it. His voice didn't fill the room, and she knew she would hear it.

She called him, weakly.

* * *

It was Pandemonium in the small room. A crowd had gathered from the squad sent to look for Kel after her horse charged into the town riderless, each man seemingly gathering another as if they needed security. Their babbling voices overflowed as they spoke worriedly.

"Kel?"

"It's Kel!"

"What happened to her?"

"How did someone catch her?"

"There's so much blood."

Dom snapped orders as he stood protectively by the prone knight, but he went largely unheard until a battle-hardened roar cut through the cacophony.

"What is this? You'd think the Own was green, that you'd never seen blood! Out, all of you, out!"

All of the soldiers quickly snapped to attention and poured out of the room in a shameful flood.

Raoul and the Own's healer entered, the latter immediately going to Kel.

Dom stayed at her side, daring Raoul to throw him out, but the commander did not make the attempt.

The healer stretched out his hands, filled with golden magic, and first touched her head to ease the pain and send her into a sleep.

Her agony-ridden expression eased slightly and she sighed, "Wyl?"

The magic was directed to her stomach to prevent further blood loss, the gold pooling around the knife handle.

"She has lost a lot of blood, my Lord," he reported. "The blade pierced her stomach and nicked her intestines."

"Meaning?" Dom asked heatedly. Raoul shook his head and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It means she might not live, Dom," he said quietly.

The healer nodded gravely. "I am afraid so. I can staunch the wound and drive out infection, but because her organs were damaged, they are releasing poison into the body. I can encourage it, but her body has to clot itself to prevent further blood loss."

They looked at the woman who lay on the table, pale and sweating as she mumbled incoherently.

"We must remove the dagger before I can say for certain, but it does not look promising."

Both nodded fiercely. As her closest friend in the Own and as her knight master, both had seen Kel grow the past four years from a somber adolescent to a more open and dryly witty knight, though she never lost her resolute determination to herself and to duty.

"But, it's Kel," Dom said, almost helplessly.

"It's Kel," Raoul echoed firmly. "If anyone can, it's her."

Neither of them dared utter the terrible alternative.

* * *

Kel felt the pain dimly, as if it was happening to someone else and she ached in sympathy. She rose and fell in sleep. Each jolt of pain lifted the haze briefly and each lull let it fall again, ensuring that she drifted in a half-dreaming consciousness.

A sudden short bolt made her instinctively curl up with a sob, but strong hands on her shoulders and legs prevented the movement.

A flash of silver and red winked past her unseeing eyes as warmth flooded through her veins, reminding her of his laugh.

Was he here?

She called for him again and again.

* * *

"That's a fine blade," Raoul noted as Dom placed it on the table, first flipping it over and wiping away blood to reveal the Raven Armory insignia.

The healer straightened, sighing. "I've removed all traces of infection from her body, but she'll continue to be feverish until her mind realizes it's gone, and she'll be highly susceptible to opportunistic infections. I can continue to staunch the blood until she has replenished some of her own, but then her blood has to clot itself. With a wound this big…" he shrugged.

"What are her chances?" Raoul asked softly, eyeing Dom from the corner of his eye as the sergeant gripped the table edge, knuckles white.

"_If _she hasn't lost too much blood, _if_ she resists further infections, _if_ she clots easily, then Lady Knight Keladry might live, but my lord," he continued sadly, "any one of those are very possible, and even one would almost assuredly mean her death."

He watched as the two men sat down heavily and excused himself, promising to return in a bell.

Kel twisted in an uneasy sleep, frowning.

Dom grasped one hand, Raoul the other, and she eased slightly though she still twitched on occasion. They both stared sadly at their friend, too hopeful to mourn, too lost in painful doubt to celebrate.

"Dom, what happened?"

The Sergeant took a shuddering breath and explained in a voice bereft of inflection.

He had been with his squad, dealing with a fight between two members, when he heard a galloping horse enter the village. Turning, he had recognized an agitated Merry, riderless, and immediately ordered his men to saddle their mounts. Merry had gone straight to him and butted him insistently; he mounted gingerly, for no one but Kel could ride him safely, and waited for his armed squad to arrive. He didn't know if Kel had been ambushed by one man, or ten.

Once they arrived, Dom let the horse had his head, and the rest of the men followed, arriving eventually at a bloody scene.

"Kel was lying there on her back," he said hoarsely. "Great dagger in her stomach, clothes soaked with blood, so pale, she looked dead already. Wolset saw the attacker; it must have been him. He was a slight blonde man wearing a peasant's cloak, and he had two injuries, a deep stab in the thigh and a dent in his head from a horse hoof."

"He was no peasant," Raoul interjected, "not with a Raven dagger."

Dom continued as if he hadn't heard. "I picked up Kel and rode with her back here. Wolset and Atley stayed to bind the man and bring him; they should be guarding him in the inn cellar. He's not going to escape," he finished heatedly.

"Of course not, though he might be dead." Raoul's eyes flashed.

They fell into an uneasy silence.

Kel began moaning quietly again. Raoul ran his free hand across her head, and his face fell. "She's getting warm again," his voice rumbled quietly, catching.

Dom closed his eyes. A drop pooled behind his eyelids and dropped to the floor.

"Dom?"

He shook his head despairingly, refusing to look at Raoul.

"Dom, do you-"

"I've always liked her, who couldn't?" Dom whispered rapidly. "Kel's smart, brilliant, deadly, wonderful, but it'd never work, not with me. I'd have to leave the Own, and… but she never cared for me anyway, though who could blame me?" He took a breath, but it caught in his throat and came out a soft groan. "I'm content just being her friend."

"Will you be alright?" Raoul began to ask, but Kel stirred, drawing both of the men's attentions.

"Wyl?" she called desperately, whispering.

Dom looked helplessly at Raoul. "She keeps saying that. I don't know if she's asking for something, or calling. Do we know a Will? Does Kel?"

Kel stirred again, mumbling urgently.

Raoul frowned, eyes resting heavily on the woman as his right hand softly brushed her hair. "I wonder..." he pondered, voice dying out. His eyes shot open as a thought hit him with the sudden force of a certain knight's lance.

"No!" he said with a strangled gasp.

"What's wrong?" Dom sat up straight, alarmed.

Raoul shook his head at the sergeant and leaned close to Kel, whispering a name into her ear. Kel twitched and her voice cracked in her unquiet sleep as she called out in a clear voice, "Wyldon!"

Dom's face lost all of its color. "You can't be serious."

"I don't understand it, either," Raoul demurred, placating Dom. "I knew they were friends after their tilting practice and their dance…"

"What!" Dom shot up from his seat. "She can't, she just can't…"

"Love another?"

"My best friend is _dying,_" he whispered brokenly. "I don't know what to think."

Raoul nodded slightly, eyes moist. "We can get the healer back," his voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "But if this is true, Lord Wyldon should be informed. He's in Port Legann right now-"

"I'll do it," cut in Dom, words hard. "If the healer can guarantee she'll live in the day it'll take for me to fetch him."

"Dom, Port Legann is nearly a day away, you can't possibly-"

"I'll do it," he repeated. "I'll take extra horses; the roads are open enough for one rider."

"Are you sure you're the most reasonable choice?" Raoul asked slowly.

"I am the only reasonable choice."

Raoul could not argue with the hard look in the Sergeant's eyes. "I'll write the letter."

* * *

Wyldon looked around his desk at the sheer volume of paperwork and sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Reports were all well and good, but there came a point where it was ridiculous, and he was long past it. He longed for someone to help, someone who knew just as much as he, who could intuit needs and orders and assist with this ugly side of knighthood.

He chuckled slightly to himself. Wyldon abhorred deceit; he couldn't even lie to himself.

He longed for Keladry.

It had been six months since he saw her expressive hazel eyes, viewed her particular expression of determination unique to herself, months since they talked, smiled, laughed.

Wyldon sighed. Any of the knights he had trained would die laughing if they knew their training master was…pining after a woman. His lip curled. Pining, what a hideously feminine expression, but he knew no others to describe his utter need for her, how he eagerly scanned every report with word of the Third Company for a hint of Keladry, how he felt disappointed when his search was fruitless, and elated when Wyldon saw even just her name.

He was pathetic, he knew. He told himself that daily, but at the same time, the visage of Keladry standing before him that day, love shining from her eyes, waiting for him, waiting for anything he could say.

Wyldon was bitter still that he hadn't acted that day. He should have more initiative; he was the one who had been married already, for Mithros' sake!

He closed his eyes, imagining. Next time they met, he would have no such compunctions. Wyldon would not leave either of them with a wistful wish of what might have been; he would draw her close, hands gently cupping her cheeks, lips drawing close to her until they touched and their breaths mingled as one, a hand slipping down to her waist to draw her flush to him. Her face would redden with pleasure; her arms would wra-

A brisk knock on the door interrupted his delightful musings. He scowled darkly and barked an, "Enter!" then looked up in surprise when a man in the uniform of the King's Own stood at attention in front of his desk. The sergeant looked exceedingly disheveled, muddy, and exhausted, the look of a man after a very hard ride.

Dom shoved back his fatigue and studied the Lord in front of him. Neal had always regaled him with stories of the 'Stump,' but this was the first time Dom had ever been close to the knight. He was broad-shouldered with a handsome, clean-shaven face, but he had a scar from the corner of one eye into what remained of his silvering hair. His posture was stiff, his face worn into lines of severity with few relieving signs of laughter.

Kel loved this man?

Dom was flummoxed.

"Sergeant?"

"Domitan of Masbolle. My lord Wyldon, I left just after noon with an urgent message from Lord Raoul." Dom handed the rolled letter to the man, who took it with just a bare widening of his eyes.

Wyldon waved for the tired sergeant to take a seat as he opened the letter with barely trembling hands. An urgent message from Kel's commander, what did it mean?

Dom watched with dark satisfaction as the Stump's blank face pale and slacken in shock. It was right that the man who had stolen Kel's heart should feel pain, but then Dom felt the hot stab of shame. If Lord Wyldon loved Kel as much as he, then he was experiencing sheer anguish, yet it was just as likely that Wyldon loved Kel more than he… Dom was, after all, unwilling to give up the Own, and Wyldon would face extreme pressure and censure for being in a relationship with Tortall's only Lady Knight. In his position, Dom wasn't sure he could do the same.

Dom knew what the letter contained…

_Lord Wyldon of Cavall,_

_Kel is dying, stabbed in the stomach just a few hours ago. She's feverish and keeps calling your name - it's the only coherent thing she is capable of saying. If you are friends, ride to Stretton Crossing as quickly as possible to ease her mind. She is stable for now, but falling steadily._

_If you love her, I am sorry._

_Lord Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie's Peak_

Wyldon's fist clenched involuntarily and he stared at the crumpled paper.

It couldn't be true.

Not Keladry, anyone but her.

After a short but agonizing moment of fervent denial, Wyldon closed his eyes and gave a brief but suppliant prayer… _Oh Mithros, spare her, save my heart from dying once more, spare her pain_…

His eyes snapped open to reveal the unkempt sergeant looking at him with unabashed sympathy.

Wyldon ignored him, instead pulling out a piece of paper and a quill, writing quickly. "Sergeant Domitan," he called harshly. "There is a runner outside my office. Bring him here."

Message to his second-in-command to take over operations in Port Legann for the next few days delivered, Wyldon and Dom headed swiftly towards the stables.

They left the darkened city within half a bell, galloping on a horse each and leading a spare by the rein.

Their journey was silent. Both were lost in their own thoughts and were unable and unwilling to share them with the other.

They arrived at Stretton Crossing just before the noon bell, the eighteen-bell ride shortened to ten. Their horses were frothed and winded, but the need was great.

Even before ensuring the horses were taken care of by the lowly soldier, Dom ran for the inn. Wyldon followed on his heels, needing only Keladry's location.

After six months, they would meet again, if under less than desirable circumstances.

Dom slid to a halt outside her room and knocked softly, shoving away anxiety and terror. The healer opened it, revealing a pale and sweating Kel shivering in her bed, Raoul in a chair by her side.

"How is she?" he demanded. Wyldon physically moved him out of the doorway and brushed by; Raoul immediately stood up, but Wyldon granted him only a short nod as he knelt by Kel.

He brushed an unsteady hand over her forehead, hair matted with sweat. She turned slowly towards him, her eyes opening.

"Wyldon." The word came out a sob.

"Keladry." The word came out a prayer.

Kel lifted her hand heavily towards his face, as if swimming through thick molasses, but it faltered halfway. Wyldon grabbed her hand and finished its journey, placing a kiss in her palm before resting it on his right cheek, closing his eyes briefly. After a short pause, he gathered both of her hands in his, clasping them firmly. His eyes searched hers, and Wyldon was dismayed to find them glazed and squinting, as if she couldn't focus her gaze.

"You're here?" she whispered, as if lost in a dream.

"I'm here."

"Don't go."

"I won't."

Kel's eyes closed. Wyldon's grip tightened and he felt cold inside. He glanced up to see Lord Raoul watching them, face unreadable.

"I want to see," Wyldon said firmly.

Raoul paused, then gently drew back Kel's blankets to reveal her torso swathed in thick bandages with a spot of red in the center. Wyldon swallowed harshly.

"Wyl," Kel murmured, shivering. "Hot."

"I know," he said soothingly as Raoul covered her form. Wyldon's fingers moved involuntarily to caress hers.

The room was quiet, silence broken only by Kel's uneven breaths. The man at her side slowly rose to sit in the chair, never breaking their connection. Raoul drew back to stand near Dom, pushing him into a chair. He knew the sergeant would refuse to leave, but Raoul quietly commanded him to sit.

"The healer said she's not clotting well," Dom directed to the room. Wyldon did not look away from Kel, but Dom watched him with hard eyes. "Her fever won't break. She is clotting, but not well or quickly enough."

Wyldon felt the weight of the sergeant's gaze and ignored its implications. He cleared his throat. "What happened to her?"

Raoul spoke before Dom could open his mouth. "Kel was out riding and someone got the jump on her. The tracks seem to indicate that he snuck up from behind and stabbed her immediately; then Kel fought him off and stabbed him in the leg. That's when her horse kicked him in the head."

Wyldon cracked a slight smirk. "Good Merry."

"The attacker is still alive. I questioned him myself a few hours ago." Raoul's face was grim. "He wasn't lying, not with that dagger for proof." He gestured towards the weapon on the table.

Wyldon removed one hand from their clasped fists, frowning when she stirred uneasily, and picked up the dagger, nodding at the insignia.

"It was Harlan of Stone Mountain."

Wyldon flinched. Now Burchard's last son would die. He sighed heavily, feeling pity for his old friend, even if Burchard hated him now. Anger roiled inside of him at the foolish boy and his rigid brother, two youths who lost themselves in pride and sneering superiority. Wyldon had no doubt that Harlan orchestrated the previous ambush as well as this one, all for some ill-conceived notion of vengeance.

What a stupid, wasteful loss.

"I will testify for Keladry at his trial," he said quietly. "I know better than anyone how much that family hates her." He laid the dagger back down and returned his hand to Kel, eyes softening when, in her delirium, her lips curled in a slight smile and she lay still. His anger abated slightly.

"As will I," Dom vowed. "I found her."

Wyldon, startled, turned to look at the man. He had forgotten the sergeant was still present in the room. "My thanks to you," he uttered stiffly. What was the soldier still doing here?

Dom scowled; the Stump didn't even sound grateful for saving the life of the woman they both loved. "You don't need to thank me; Kel is my best friend."

"As she is mine." Wyldon was struck by a thought, that this young whelp loved Keladry, but he couldn't bring himself to care. She loved him, not this sergeant of the Own. Why else would she call for him, why else would she quiet at his touch?

Besides, if Wyldon had been there when Kel had been found, no force in Tortall could have dragged him away, especially not to fetch someone even if she did call out for him.

If the fool was in love with Keladry, he displayed it poorly and was too late.

Wyldon certainly wasn't leaving now.

He met the staring eyes of Domitan coldly.

Raoul interrupted before Dom could say anything else. It was obvious Kel had made her choice; Dom needed to stop acting like a spurned puppy. "Dom, you've been up for two days straight. Get food and find a bed," he commanded.

Dom resisted. "But my lord…"

"That's an order, Sergeant Domitan," he continued sternly, then he softened slightly. "You did very well, Dom. There's nothing more you can do."

Wyldon didn't bother to watch him leave, but returned his intense gaze to Keladry.

"Forgive him," Raoul sighed.

"There is nothing to forgive, for I cannot fault him for his feelings when I feel the same." He paused. "I would have expected you to display a similar manner."

"I am not so hot-headed as I was in my youth," Raoul said wryly. "I like to think I have grown in more than just stature. Besides… I've been worried about Kel. She has not been herself lately."

Wyldon nodded slowly. "That I can understand; I have hardly been myself, either."

"Look, I understand this is a rather impertinent question," Raoul said slowly, "but how long has this…" he gestured, "been going on?"

Wyldon considered the other man, who had the decency to blush. Wyldon understood that the other knight felt protective of Keladry; he had been her knight-master for four years, and this was not the first sign of it. He mentally winced, thinking of the scene after they discovered Keladry had gone to fetch the refugees in Scanra.

He decided Lord Raoul had earned the truth. "We have been friends since she returned from Scanra a year ago. Before we each left for our posts, we came to an… understanding, of sorts, to decide our future course after our year apart."

"And you?"

"My honor is engaged."

"I can't say I approve, because I don't," Raoul said bluntly. "If I thought you loved her any less, then I would do everything in my considerable power to separate you, but I can't, not if you both truly love each other. I am not such a monster as that."

"I never said-"

"A blind fool could tell that you love Kel," Raoul interjected, "and that she loves you, desperately."

Wyldon covered his blush by looking down at Keladry and squeezing her hands. He did not have the words to respond.

"You must eat," Raoul said suddenly.

"I will not leave her."

"Which is why I didn't ask you to leave."

"I am not hungry," he refused.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them watching the feverish woman.

"I was shocked, you know," Raoul started, "when I received your letter about accepting her as my squire."

Wyldon hardly smiled. "I suspected as much."

"I was considering her anyway, ever since the spidrens and then that bandit mess, but I hadn't taken a squire since I first became a knight." He shrugged. "Knowing that you felt it important enough to send me a message, that's what pushed me into it."

"It was the right decision. She was too talented to waste as a palace squire."

"Of course."

Dom entered the room quietly, resolutely ignoring the look from Raoul. He sat in a chair and laid his head down on the table. Raoul hesitated, and walked over to grip his shoulder in understanding. He then kissed his fingers and touched them to Kel's cheek before departing, bidding the two men farewell.

Wyldon ignored Dom, and Dom Wyldon. They were here for one reason only, the woman on the bed.

Wyldon spent the next hours in quiet agonized introspection.

Vivenne had been taken by a fever.

This was his worst nightmare replaying itself, except that he and his wife had enjoyed two decades together, and he and Kel had not even kissed. It didn't seem right, it didn't seem fair.

The enormity of the situation hit him suddenly.

Kel was dying.

_Kel was dying._

Wyldon would lose his training partner, his best friend, his fledgling relationship with a woman who made him feel young again, who made him forget the ache in his bones, or that he was a rather dour person, who reminded him that he had a sense of humor, that humor and duty could go together.

He realized that he needed her more than he ever thought possible, now at the moment he was about to lose her.

The healer came into the room on several occasions; each time, Dom lifted his weary head to hear the prognosis before falling back into an uneasy sleep. Wyldon refused to let go of Kel, and the healer commented on their connection.

"She is no better, but no worse, my lord. If she does not improve soon, she will die."

Wyldon swallowed back his cry of dismay and heartbreak. "How soon?"

The healer looked at him with sad eyes. "Her fever saps her strength. If it doesn't break before nightfall…"

His body went cold, his mind numb. Wyldon could not think; he refused to think. If he thought, he would spiral down into a desperate panic, thoughts chasing each other, until he was absolutely useless to Keladry.

He would hold himself together for her sake.

If she, if it happened, then he could let himself fall to pieces, but for now he had to be strong, to be stone.

After the healer visited the last time for the day, he simply shook his head at the knight. Wyldon didn't need to be told; he could see Keladry's sweating face and trembling body under the mass of blankets.

It was nearly time.

Wyldon blinked back the sudden tears that threatened to fall at the thought.

He found Kel's steady gaze on himself, her eyes more open and clear since he had arrived. "You're awake," he said with anxious relief.

She shivered. "I'm cold, Wyl."

He did not give the sleeping man at the table a glance, or even a thought. Keladry needed him, and Wyldon could not refuse her anything. His reputation meant nothing, not without her; it did not matter to him if they were found in the morning, not if she was still alive. Wyldon stood up, bones creaking, and removed his heavy boots before slipping gingerly into the covers. He wrapped them in the blankets and enfolded Keladry in his arms, resting her head on his chest, frightfully awed at the amount of heat emanating from her body.

Dom woke up as Wyldon gathered Kel in a loving and desperate embrace, whispering to her softly, the older knight's face a portrait of wretched misery. He quietly rose and left the room, swallowing back more than his pride.

"Please don't leave me, Keladry, not again," he whispered into her hair, damp with sweat.

She shivered at the breath playing along her clammy skin. "I love you, Wyldon."

He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes. "I love you too," he said reverently.

"I don't want to leave you," she said suddenly.

"Then don't," he pleaded softly, replacing his head on top of hers. "I couldn't bear it if you did."

"But Wyl, I feel so tired."

Wyldon nodded slightly, breath catching in his throat. "I know, love."

"Don't leave me tonight," she murmured, arms losing strength around him. He gripped her tighter, as if defying the Black God's embrace by substituting his own.

"I was going to ask you to marry me when we both arrived at Corus," Wyldon breathed into her ear. "After a few weeks or months, I was going to make you my wife. I'm sure it would have scandalized the court, perhaps made a few hardy knights faint like delicate court flowers… I wanted to do it. I still will," he said fiercely. "I still will."

Keladry's arms clutched his chest, then she sighed quietly.

Wyldon let the tears trickle out from behind his tightly shut eyes as he counted her slow, slight breaths as they became slower.

* * *

When Wyldon awoke, she was watching him with open eyes with no trace of fever.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, voice ringing clearly, if weakly.

Wyldon couldn't think beyond the fact that his Keladry was alive. "Keladry," he uttered in awe.

She smiled at him before she continued firmly. "Last night, did you mean it?"

Thought returned to Wyldon, and he remembered.

"Every word."

She closed the short distance between them. "I shall hold you to that, Wyl," she confided into his lips.

He hesitated just before they touched, pulling back slightly. "What's all this 'Wyl' nonsense?" He arched his brow.

Kel paused thoughtfully. "Would you prefer Stump?"

"On second thought…" he never finished his sentence

Sunlight rose upon the two knights as they lay entwined. Their life together would not be easy. There would always be people who tittered, friends who shook their heads, and unfeeling duties to separate them, but now having and loving one other, their new life was assuredly unbreakable.


End file.
